Journalistic Integrity: Volume I- The Bodak's Globe
by VesuviusBlotch
Summary: Rhapsody Gossip is a sorcerer. By day, she's a journalist, researching the criminal underbelly of magical society to write for the Global Link, centre of all sorcerer news around the world. At night, however, she's an Anodyne, a mage who fights crime on her own terms. This is her and her friends' story and their battle against evil in a crime-torn England. (M-Rated for a reason.)
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter One_

_January 1st, 2011_

It was a saying, wasn't it? That age didn't matter. It was just a number, after all. A tool for others to exploit when they attempted to explain away your faults. The fact was, despite knowing and accepting this little fact of life, Voight didn't know if he could face another year. Another year of wanton pity poured down on him and snide remarks tossed his way. No. He didn't desire that in the slightest. But in the end, what choice did he have, but to grind his teeth and buckle down and get on with life? Bloody no choice at all, that's what.

He was stood, staring out of the window in one of his many superior's one of many manor houses. Obscured as it was with pelting snow, he still managed to catch a glimpse of the flashing fireworks and festival lights that heralded the New Year. It looked pretty, from where he was. It probably looked even prettier without a frosty shield concealing it. Voight saw no need to celebrate. It was just one more year of misery and death and the end of everything came just one step closer. He was a pessimist, he knew this. He also knew any hope of furthering himself in his line of work was a fool's hope and nothing more.

Maybe once he'd be out there, reveling and carousing with the rest of his fellow mortals, thirty-something years ago. But when he'd hit his late twenties, he'd given up all the pleasures and distractions of youth in order to purge himself of all potential commotions that endangered the success of his many, he reflected, dead end ambitions. When he'd turned forty, he'd stopped thinking of it, when he'd realised his life as it was, was just as much a dead end as the elusive dreams of his youth. Now here he hunched, aged fifty-six, proudly sweating in a stifling corridor, leaning against the cracked wallpaper, waiting to be reprimanded like a naughty schoolboy. Life truly did have a funny way of doing things. Life was also a complete, utter bitch.

Voight checked his unreliable, raggedy old watch and saw it as five past midnight. Or since it was broken, that meant it was twenty-five past midnight. Typical. His boss had requested his presence at the precise moment the clock struck twelve and knowing the man's irritating flair for the dramatic, Voight had expected the ponce to come strolling out of his office, gesticulating like a dying fish and grinning like an idiot dead on the witching hour that signaled 365 more days of hell. Instead, the bigwig was, as far as Voight could tell, still in his office, doing God-knows-what and Voight was out here, tugging at his suit collar in a vain attempt to be rid of the heat. Absolutely bloody typical.

Surely, he should be used to it by now, though. A mortal, working with sorcerers? That was practically an invitation for him to come and feel inferior. Yet again, he asked himself what choice did he have? Of course, he was bound to experience a touch of insignificance when ordered out on job runs and hits with these men and women who wielded the power of gods. It wasn't just in combat where they outshone him at every turn, with their fireballs and dazzling energy beams, which the equally dazzling New Year lights in no way failed to remind him of. No, it was the way they carried themselves. Sorcerers, or at least, all the ones Voight had worked with, walked with a steely purpose, spoke with a disturbing assurance, no doubt fueled by the knowledge that with a mere wave of their hand, the pathetic mortals around them were nothing but insects to be crushed. Voight freely admitted it. He was frightened of magic. Maybe he wouldn't be, maybe he'd appreciate the elegant beauty and wondrous glory of it, if the people who did use it weren't so overbearingly arrogant and downright menacing.

But that was how he lived. Hell, that was how they all lived. They were gangsters. There wasn't really a more complimenting term for it, although Voight did hold a fondness for _ragamuffin_ and _desperado_. They just seemed a bit more adventurous, nearly disguised the violent intentions behind the job. But no, _gangsters_ it was and unless Rossiter decreed otherwise, _gangsters_ it stayed. Voight hated Rossiter. Not because he was over twenty years younger than Voight and still owned all that youthful adrenaline that made him so damn good at everything, the adrenaline that had since deserted Voight and left him as a crumbling old shell bordering sixty. It wasn't a result of him being the boss, and Voight being nothing more than another underling to be commanded around, although that may have been part of it. It all boiled down to Rossiter possessing the uncanny ability to suck every last piece of comfort and joy out of Voight's life. Because he wasn't as young as he was, Voight had once held court the idea of sharing his experiences with the young recruits, to help train them, to sow pearls of wisdom and knowledge into the tapestry of a fresh new generation and hopefully, guide them to escape the same mistakes he'd made.

But no. Voight wasn't allowed to do any of that. Rossiter had stripped him of every conceivable freedom he'd had, save death. The recruits were forced to endure hardened training exercises, intense physical obstacles, all in favour of making them more refined killing machines and to hone their battle skills against all breed of opponents, including enemy sorcerers. Meanwhile, Voight was stuck doing labour and maintenance, comprising of organising which crates should be dumped and where old storage boxes were to be discarded. Occasionally, he'd be able to tag along on a mission, but any chance he had of partaking in the job were put down by the other gangsters, who labelled him as 'grandad' and 'fossil' when they were feeling merciful. Voight didn't want to recount the worst things they'd called him. Voight winced when he recounted a lot of things that he'd been through during his all-too long stay with the Black Jackals.

So long it was, he remembered when the organisation hadn't even been named the Black Jackals, but the Dark Horses and before that the Thunder Clappers and before that…Well, before that he was certain it'd been something equally stupid. He didn't try and invent his own names for it were he in charge. There was no point. His body worked, but his spirit and heart were broken. He'd never be in charge. It'd take a miracle for him to be in Rossiter's position. Looking back on it, Voight had never believed in miracles. Even if he started now, he'd still be stuck in the proverbial mire.

"Xavier Voight," a voice snapped him out of his thoughts and Voight's vision sharpened as he came crashing back down to reality. The window was even more covered in snow now. There were no fireworks to be seen. Nothing of the outside world was visible at all. That didn't help matters. That pang of isolation and dread worming around in his stomach now went up a couple of notches. Tentatively, he glanced to his right.

"That's me," he confirmed, knowing full well the beaky face that protruded from the office doorway was aware of who he was. It was just how things like this were in the Black Jackals. All false smiles and phony formality, hiding the true surging emotions beneath. It was when Voight was in the office, defenseless against the tongue-lashing of the top man, that the shit got real. Even though it was only a verbal assault that Voight needed to survive, he didn't count himself lucky. He'd be lying if he hadn't heard rumours of younger gangsters who got themselves into trouble and were beaten or killed as a consequence. Thankfully, to his knowledge, they were just rumours, merely there to maintain the atmosphere of terror that hung over this living like a fell cloud. But the possibility of it being true kept Voight to his wits. He had no intention of being the first of any future disappearances.

Swallowing and trying not to show it, Voight stepped forward and followed the beckoning man, every cell of his brain focusing on one foot moving in front of the other. Never had walking a few metres to the door seemed so draining. The doorman, Bramble, his name was, waited and wasted no time in letting his impatience arise in his squinting features and crumpled mouth. Ignoring the disdain, Voight passed through the doorway and Bramble slammed it behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Voight," announced Kurt Rossiter, rising up from his impeccably clean desk and wearing his infuriatingly clean clothes, "welcome! Please take a seat and we can get started right away. This shouldn't take more than…Oh, five or ten minutes, I should say." The man held his arms out wide and gestured to the rickety old guest chair in front of his desk and as he descended into his own plush, lavish throne of a seat, he brushed his delicate suit with much gusto, as if Voight's very entrance had brought with him all the dust and dirt of the gritty crime-rife streets. The same streets where Rossiter dared not show his face, not for fear of being recognized, but for fear of staining his perfect shirt, his snazzy jacket, his polished shoes. Not just a bastard, but a sickening hypochondriac too. God, Voight was hard pressed to find anyone who didn't despise Rossiter in some way or another. Except of course, his faithful arse-licker Bramble.

Voight sat, cautious not to put his full weight on the chair in case it broke and glanced at Bramble out of the corner of his eye, sticking to the shadows and keeping quiet. To be honest, Voight wouldn't be surprised if he didn't hear another word out of Bramble for the rest of the night. He was there for security and to protect Rossiter from any angry gangsters who didn't appreciate being told who their supposed better was, not to speak or offer his opinion. And to appear intimidating. Voight almost admired him. The way he held himself so stern and steady was reminiscent of a mage, but as far as he knew, Bramble had no more magic than Voight. Yet Rossiter chose him as his bodyguard above all the mages on his payroll, some of which were more than eager to bend their backs in service for an extra few quid to add to their name. Why, exactly? Bramble wasn't immediately impressive and, in the end, Voight chalked that one up to Rossiter's highly probable delusion that magic was some kind of infectious disease and he might catch it. Almost smirking at the image of a distressed Rossiter squealing at some invisible, uncatchable virulence, Voight very nearly forgot where he was and why he was there. Good thing he remembered. Forgetting yourself in the Boss's office was, by Black Jackal law, something approaching a death sentence.

"So, Xavier, how are you?" Rossiter asked, with a flawless replica of a genuine smile. Expecting this, Voight returned it with one of his own, equally as fake.

"Alright, boss. Yeah, I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"And you are, of course, very welcome, but one thing is a little curious. You say you're fine, yes? That is what you just said, I believe?"

Voight nodded slowly. It seemed Rossiter was starting the torture session early. He feared the last straw might already be snapped. When Voight failed to answer quick enough, Rossiter picked up the conversation, reciting his jibes as if he'd rehearsed it all from a script.

"Well, dear Xavier, please enlighten me as to how and indeed why, a man of your skill," Rossiter spat the last word out like he'd been sucking on a lemon, "and calibre has been nothing more than a liability of late! Need I mention last month's disaster of a raid?"

"Well, boss, as I said back then, I was placed there as an observer and reserve tactician, not as a raid leader-"

"So you just observed nearly the entire raid team lose their lives like that, did you?" said Rossiter, his lips curling in a sneer, "You realise an observer and reserve tactician is meant to actually offer advice based on what they've observed and hopefully try to create some semblance of a tactic to further the plan in hand?"

"Sir," started Voight, knowing he wouldn't be allowed to finish, "that raid leader never listened to a word I said, and I doubt he had any intention to. Besides, none of us were told that warehouse was run by sorcerers and we were completely unprepared for-"

"That'll be enough, mister," interrupted Rossiter and Voight bit back an objection, "that's just one of the many duties you've failed to uphold in your stay here at the Black Jackals." It was at this point that Rossiter usually did the thing with the paper, but it seemed he-No. Wait. He did it. With an unnecessary flourish, Rossiter pulled a wad of papers out of one of his desk drawers and donned his reading glasses. It was pathetic. Voight suspected Rossiter didn't even need spectacles to see and he knew for certain that those papers had nothing written nothing on them. Maybe an ink blotch or a scribbled reminder, but hardly anything pertaining to Voight or his failings.

"Well, sir," Voight tried, "If you're aware of the gang's history, I've been here far longer than you have, and I've been a valuable asset in a lot of senses."

Rossiter huffed aristocratically. Voight wondered how often he'd practiced that huff in the mirror. "Yes, yes. A lot of senses. Just not common sense, apparently. I have here Darrow's report on the Drip Trip two weeks ago-"

"May I see it?" asked Voight, doing the cutting across for a change, injecting some politeness into it. Besides, he might as well call Rossiter's bluff. Rossiter, for his part, appraised him with a slightly disgusted frown, like Voight had just spewed vomit on his gleaming footwear.

"No," Rossiter answered bluntly, and Voight didn't let the surprise register, because there was no surprise to be found, "but Darrow has stated that in that week, the Drip Trip was led astray and ambushed by several Sanctuary agents. Unless someone fucked up on charting the route and then following said route at the time, it would have gone down smoothly and flawlessly. Remind me who oversaw mapping on that mission again, if you'd be so kind."

Voight sighed, figuring out how to word it. He gave up. "I was in charge," he replied, "and that wasn't my fault! I kept to the route but the others' map was marked differently. They said mine was wrong and overpowered me. When I objected, I got locked in a crate. Probably the only reason I'm still alive, otherwise I'd be dead or in prison."

"Yes, that is a pity indeed," said Rossiter harshly, "but that's not all. That was a big enough fuck-up, I'd thought you'd maybe at least try to get your shit together, but no! Giving our guards with those blank weapons for a whole week was an embarrassment!" One gnarled finger twistedly pointed at Voight's rapidly wilting face which mirrored his rapidly crumbling resolve and very rapidly disintegrating temper.

"You knew that operation was in effect to try and get one up on our rivals, the Shacklewolves! If you hadn't messed that one up, we'd be sitting high and mighty on their hideouts and their territory, all of us getting a bit of Drip in our systems. Instead, they're still in power, we're in the weaker position and for some reason, you're still hired."

"But Sir-"

"_No but sirs_!" screamed Rossiter, standing up and letting the fat load of papers slam onto his desk. Voight didn't have the heart or willpower to snatch a glimpse and confirm his suspicions about their contents. He was too busy holding the boss's gaze and hoping against hope it wouldn't become physical.

"I'm sick of it! Sick of you! Sick to death of your stupid mistakes! That's it, you're fired. You're gone, Voight, you hear me? Fucking gone!"

Voight rose sharply, the temper inside him flaring up like a firework. However, all he could do was splutter and breathe heavily as rage consumed him. He'd been practicing the rant he'd inevitably deliver to Rossiter's face when he was either kicked off or left of his own accord and now…the words failed him. He flinched when a hand gripped his elbow. He turned his head to see Bramble, expression unreadable, although Voight swore he picked up a slight smile threatening to split the bodyguard's face.

"You've got until tomorrow afternoon to pack your shit," snarled Rossiter, leaning over the desk, confident that Bramble's presence crushed any wishes Voight had to bid farewell with his fist, "If I see you after then, in any part of my domain, you'll regret it. I'll make you suffer so much you'll wish you'd never popped out of your mum's pussy. Now piss off!"

A tart nod to Bramble, and the bodyguard steered Voight to the door, practically shoving him out. Stumbling a bit, Voight propped himself up against the wall. Watching him, Bramble tilted his head toward the corridor leading to the living quarters and promptly shut the door. Voight stared. He stared and stared until he memorized every little scratch and etch on the door's dark chocolate veneer and when it was clear it wasn't going to open again, he forced himself to turn away and take the familiar path to his room. Damn him. Damn Kurt Rossiter for being the reincarnation of Hitler; damn Bramble for being the arse-licker he was; damn that door for blocking his path to beating and enacting his revenge on the arse-licker and his Führer and damn fucking Darrow for his fucking reports.

But most of all, damn him. Damn Xavier Voight for being the speck of a man that he was, for not even fighting for his right, not even smacking Rossiter just once for the sake of preserving his dignity. That made him stifle a laugh. Dignity? What he had was the antithesis of the word. As he dwelled on his diminishing reasons to stay alive, he passed some of the windows on the way to his destination. The frost had thickened up again on some, but others were spared and flashes of green and blue, red and gold, white and purple spiraled and pirouetted in the night sky, weaving nonsensical but nevertheless gorgeous patterns. It failed to alleviate his mood. He doubted anything could. Voight peered through the last windowpane before the door to his quarters. There. Beyond all the whizzing rockets and joyous carnivalesque colouring, there was the black expanse surrounding it all. That was life and death, he figured. Life came to an end, eventually, and death was always there, always on the precipice of claiming the individual. He'd be a fool to think himself any different. But life made a show of things, it got distracted in all the pointless merriments and festivities in order to console itself that yes, it'd end, in time. But not right now. Not yet. It was just Voight who had absolutely none of these distractions to occupy him, to comfort him. His life would die and there was nothing to contradict that single, inescapable reality.

He twisted the doorknob and entered his living arrangements. It was small and self-contained and yes, quite shitty. The bed creaked, the sheets were stained, the floor was riddled with holes and there was a permanent draught besieging him, shielded as he was by the ragged duvet. This room's window was facing away from all the crazy commemorations and that was just how he preferred it. Blank, dark and empty. A reflection of himself. A better reflection of him than the mirror on his wardrobe. As he changed into a set of thick pyjamas, readying for the bitter cold of the oncoming night, he looked at his face. Crow's feet, receding hair, the first few streaks of silver emerging on his scalp, wrinkles adorning the better part of his neck and face. He looked like a husk someone had dug up for a laugh. He squinted through the dark. Mismatched teeth addled yellow too, a crooked nose that was bent due to genetics and beatings and not bravery in combat, an Adam's Apple that probably stuck out further than his dick. God, he didn't just look like a husk. He looked like shit. Positively shit.

Enough. It was time. Adjusting his pyjama trousers to just the right height and scratching his head to rid an itch, he wandered to the bedside cupboard and opened the second drawer down to reveal his revolver. He reached inside, not bothering to turn the nearby lamp on, and plucked it out, not wasting any time in gazing longingly at all the good times he'd shared with this firearm and all the not-so-good people he'd killed with it. No, he just checked it was loaded, flicked off the safety and placed it against the side of his head, finger hovering over the trigger. He almost did it and stopped. He had until the morning to start packing. He could still scrape some last vestiges of fun. So he jammed it under his chin instead, wondering how much likely he'd die from firing there as opposed to the first option. Next, he did it pointing inside his mouth and again between the eyes. Dancing with the devil. It sure beat sleep.

But at last, after aiming it at his groin, he decided he was getting far too carried away. So he chose the position, the first one was the best he thought, after all that effort, since it was out of sight and very soon, permanently out of mind and felt for the trigger. There it was. He wondered whether to leave a note of some kind, but remembered he lacked a paper and pen. Whatever. Life was too short for the little things, he chuckled and he squeezed and a loud smash filled the world.

Wait. A smash? He'd fired many guns and they'd never made that noise before. Was that it? He wasn't dead, was he? No, he couldn't be. How else would he be thinking these thoughts? He opened his eyes. He didn't realise he'd closed them. He was aware of the hand still holding the revolver and he turned to peer at the muzzle. Strange. He checked the chamber. Still six bullets, the same as before. Weird. A blasting cold hit him from behind. Bizarre. Voight blinked and studied his hand. The cold had numbed it slightly and it was very pale but he felt the sensations of touch. A surge of resolution spilled through him, and Voight kicked the bedside cupboard, hissing when his foot exploded in pain and he grasped it, howling and blowing on it to allay the agony. Yep, still alive, then. Well, then what was it that smashed? The window. It had to be. Voight stood up from the bed, assured his big toe hadn't shattered, and saw the window in all its broken glory. A huge gaping hole was there, the freezing breeze funneling through like a metal mouth blowing its vanquishing breath. The glass was on the inside, little shards littering the floor. But nothing was there next to them. No grenade or bomb or anything like that. Not a Shacklewolf attack then. That was their usual routine malpractice.

Voight took a step forward. And another. And a third. If it was hostile, he'd be killed or maimed or injured and he'd be all the better for it. If it weren't, and it was just some teenagers getting a bit too excited for New Year's Day, then he'd sigh, laugh at the distant memory of youth and go back to the side of his bed and kill himself. Simple as that. Funny how life is, though. Voight did neither of those. He skimmed the floorboards for any more debris and potential weapons, found none, travelled to his bed where the revolver was lying patiently on the pillow and something flickered in the shadows and a wisp of blackness leapt onto his face.

It was dark. Dark enough that amidst the shadows, it stood out. It was cold, too, so cold it made the powerful winds invading the room seem mild. Raw panic shot through Voight and he whirled his head around, shaking and scrambling for purchase, but the dark thing repelled his touch and when he emitted a sharp intake of breath, two tiny tendrils sneaked into his mouth and pulled. They prised his mouth open and Voight's body flailed in defence as best it could, but the cold pierced him every which way, and his reactions were sluggish and reluctant. Had he even moved from the same spot? He felt dead. He didn't have nearly enough energy to put up a valiant fight. Soon, the black force succeeded in parting the gates of his teeth and slithered down his tongue and ventured into his throat, beginning its journey down. Voight's vision was now unobscured, but any remaining comfort at that whittled away when his gag reflex tingled, and a lurch of vomit threatened to rise up.

Suddenly, just as his innards contracted, preparing to fire all puke cannons, the monstrosity taking a road trip inside him travelled elsewhere and the sick died down instantaneously. But the coldness stayed. It was in his chest, pulsing and flitting around. It peppered him with brief stings in parts of his upper body, until it stopped, and Voight placed a hand over his heart. Still beating, still alive. Shame. Then like a madman's lightshow, it all flared up. Enormous lances of chill jingled and jangled through his nervous systems, bits and pieces connected and a rocket of something indescribable bolted to his head and split his thoughts in two. His mind froze. His thoughts scattered. Eyesight faded and before anything was discernible, the world was tilting wildly and a hard pressure smacked against his head and right shoulder. Darkness consumed all.

Seconds passed, yet the number eluded him. It was strange. He was aware of lying there, like that, for ages. Or maybe it just seemed like ages. For the second time that night, his eyes opened and the black void vanished. No fear. No more alien cold coursing through his veins. He was fine. He was more than fine. Two were one now, and one was unstoppable. There was a hand just in front of him, fingers curled in, giving the illusion of death. He moved them, just to see them move and gradually lifted the whole hand at the wrist, then at the elbow, and propped his entire vessel on one arm. Blood was rushing, his heart was beating. Oh, how he'd missed that, the tell-tale pulse of a blood-filled heart. His head ached from the collision with the tough wooden floor but he savoured the ache, for it was sensuous and any sensation now, good or bad, was simply _divine_. It was glorious. He spent the next few minutes or however long getting to grips with movement again, despite hardly needing to. After all, the takeover was instinctive, and all bodily functions immediately activated and enhanced the strength, speed and life of it all. It was a fascinating process, and it'd been admittedly a long time since he'd experienced such a thing as this, but all the memories and facts flooded back to him. He recalled past lifetimes, past deeds and past emotions. It all flashed by him in an eyeblink. When he was done with the past, he decided to focus on the present and began to formulate the future in his mind.

He was Xavier Voight. Yes, he was him but also many others. One other in particular stood out from the ancient gallery of old faces that stared at him in the broken timeline that darted in and out of his thoughts. This other was him, a beacon of identity that shone through the black shield that filtered out the others. This one's memories were stronger and more vivid. Almost touchable. Blink. Now he beheld the Voight man's pillow and the revolver that in the ensuing melee had been knocked onto the floor. Dutifully, he retrieved it and used his pyjama top to wipe off the dust. It wasn't perfect, but it'd do. He checked the chamber once more, eyes absorbing the six bullets within. Memories melded and he was reminded of what he was about to do before the invasion of his self. Suicide.

It all was so unfamiliar, odd that he'd considered taking his own life when for many centuries, all he'd been hell bent on preserving his essence at all costs. The need to escape, that overwhelming desire to cut short his pathetic existence still echoed around his head and he didn't like it one bit. No. It was growing stronger, too. What the hell was that about? Somehow, the fortress that imprisoned his heart was being eroded even as he wondered. The man's emptiness was apparent, but the feelings of worthlessness and disrepair within Voight had been literally at their zenith when the takeover had happened. Bracing himself, he shoved back the urges and twisted his neck, eliciting a satisfying snap as he reinforced the prison that restrained all traces of empathy and compassion. There. The little voices that smattered his lack of conscience were crushed for another day. Now it was time for action.

Anger rose up. Familiar anger. A storm of rage prickled in his fingers and his fist involuntarily clenched. Interesting. He was very angry. But what he could do? He'd been fired by his boss, mistreated by him and all his minions. He'd been hesitant to take even the slightest bit of vengeance and the opportunity had long since deserted him. It'd been a pity at the time. But there was something he could do. He was Voight and yet not, and the anger that plagued him was something so easily corrected. A new purpose, a new mission filled him, filled them both. They were different, yet they melded just like Voight and him. Flawless merging. Smiling and loving the feel of his face splitting like that, the smile turned into a grin, and wearing this grin, they stroked the gun in their hands and walked up to the door, opening it. A quick glance at the time, eyes darting to the lonely watch perched on top of the cupboard. Just after one o'clock. Usually, Rossiter stayed in his office until three, sometimes even slept there, Voight told them. Ideal.

Xavier Voight, the improved Xavier Voight, strolled through the door, not bothering to close it, and headed for the familiar corridor that lead to Kurt Rossiter's office to kill Rossiter for all his crimes and infractions on his person. Maybe Bramble too, if he was there. If not, it didn't matter. There were many other ways to make one suffer. After that, the world was his. Theirs, even. His brain, stimulated with fortitude, was fed with plans and goals, lapped up greedily as all forms of wants and wishes filled him. He was alive again and this time, he'd see his ambition, his _duty_ up to the bitter end. Unfortunately, for Rossiter and many others, they'd be dead long before they saw that duty come to beautiful fruition. This was going to be fun.

_Author's Notes: I do not own any of the Skulduggery Pleasant books or characters. I'm just a fan, a die-hard Minion who wanted to write this. I haven't yet developed a schedule, but I'll try and do this on a weekly basis. I'm planning a seven volume series based around these characters and this setting, but I'm writing as I go, just to warn you. Thanks for reading and I promise, yes, it will all make sense in due course. Next time: we meet our protagonist in the flesh. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_January 25th, 2011_

Drumming her fingers on the musty desk and sneaking a look at the clock over on the wall, Rhapsody waited, rather impatiently, for the rest of her story to print out. It still eluded her as to why with mortal technology further advanced than ever and magical technology surpassing even that, it was still a required rule that she and other mages working here were forced to follow by using these obsolete pieces of scrap that would've been welcome on any rubbish pile stretching as far back as the bloody 1970s. _But if we use magic printers, then criminal elements might steal it, sell it and publicise it! Then we're one step closer to the Big Secret splashing across mortal news and we'll be fucked._ Firstly, Rhapsody possessed qualms to her superior's unsatisfying explanation. The one that sprang earliest to mind was 'magic printers' because what the heck was a _magic printer?_ A machine that released both your desired document and blasted out a couple fireballs while it was at it? Further proof that Rhapsody's boss hadn't the slightest idea what spewed out of her mouth more than half the time.

Second, Rhapsody would be hard pressed to name any such criminal element that'd risk venturing into this shit-heap of a building for a bloody printer. The floors were grimy, the wallpaper peeling and no matter where your office was, the unpleasant stench of the toilets wasn't far away. Not far away enough for Rhapsody's liking, anyway. Beside the overall shabbiness of the building, Rhapsody's doubt didn't stop there. This was the main foundation centre of the Global Link, the centre of all sorcerer news broadcasting and communication in the world. Yes, to strike here was a crippling blow indeed, but the fact was that there were so many outposts, so many reserve stations not to mention ample security and lack of motive or interest, sabotaging or even destroying this place would be nothing more than a blip on the radar. The effect would be less than palpable. Word spread, with or without complicated devices and technology to make sure it did so.

The third point, the 'Big Secret' otherwise known as magic, was a cause for concern. However, for Rhapsody it was just a minor inconvenience. She never needed her magic in public or during the day anyway, unless in the direst of emergencies and the Global Link worked in quite close quarters with the Sanctuary, resulting in the best possible wires crossed. If she or any of her co-workers even suspected that something was amiss, and it never was in the thirty years Rhapsody had been employed there, then a squad of Cleavers and trained sorcerers were there at the drop of a hat. She'd met the Public Relations Sensitives and they were professional and expert at their job, not just nice people. When she thought of it, Rhapsody knew a lot of Sanctuary operatives, and was friends, albeit tentatively so, with a fair few of them. It was a perk of her second job, the one she preferred to keep on the down-low. Truth be told, she just preferred it in general, but she needed to do something to get paid and make a scarce living. God, if only her younger self could see her now. All that wonder at the infinite possibilities that magic led to, only to realise that employment in sorcery was eerily similar to the mundane careers mortals led. Not even the knowledge that the Global Link was one of the most important aspects in keeping all Sanctuaries around the world united assured her. There were so many safeguards in place that Rhapsody could drop a bomb in the Head Overseer's office and obliterate this building and everyone inside it and it wouldn't make a mite of difference. Not that she'd ever do such a thing but knowing some of the morons she encountered in these dirty corridors, she'd be a liar to say it hadn't trod through her imagination at some point.

Eventually, her fingers grew tired of smacking the desk and she fiddled with a pen instead, clicking it on and off until that became tiresome and she snatched another askance glance at the clock hanging half-heartedly above the door. It hung, half off its nail, ramshackle but she'd grown accustomed to the lopsided angle and read it as late afternoon. Half past five to be precise. The rattling hum of the printer droned on, resembling a dying beast until it _pinged_. That _ping_ was the most beautiful sound Rhapsody had heard yet that day. The task was done. She rose out of her chair and grabbed the load of papers, turning it over and reading through it, analysing every word, basking in the quality of her writing. It was good, she had to admit. But one more lookover before presenting it to the Senior Overseer was always a wise choice.

_Remnants Unleashed!_

_A Thousand Shadows Fall Over Ireland_

_By Rhapsody Gossip_

_The Christmas festivities of 2010, which initially held a distinct promise to be grander and more opulent than ever before in England's history, was tragically dimmed by the disaster that struck our ally, the Irish Sanctuary and the rest of their homeland. Ireland's status as a Cradle of Magic has always resulted in more attention being drawn to its shores, whether that be positive, including the observations of one Professor G. Inkhorn, a renowned explorer of magic worldwide who hopes to soon publish a novel revolving around the three Cradles and their roots of sorcery, or indeed negative, as the last few years have proven to be. If diabolical worshippers of the Faceless Ones and the Dark Gods they deem to be rightful inheritors of this world wasn't enough, various mercenaries, monsters and ne'er-do-wells of all disciplines have proven to be an obstacle to Ireland's path in creating a stable, peaceful society for both mortals and the mages that watch over them. _

_The latest fiasco, or adventure as some of the more excitable sorcerers labelled it, consisted of a plague of body-snatching entities, known only as Remnants, sweeping through the country and possessing the vast majority of the population there. However, despite the overwhelming surge of hosts that were stolen by these angry wisps of bitter souls, some sorcerers managed to survive and accomplish victory through near impossible odds. Detectives Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain, along with the aid of several allies, were able to trap the swarms of Remnants inside the Receptacle, the giant Soul Catcher within MacGillycuddy's Reeks, Kerry. Despite this victory, the Remnants still need to be housed somewhere secure. Formerly the Midnight Hotel, haven for outlaws and exiles of all nationalities, plans are now being made to contain the Remnants where release is impossible. However, more information has yet to be shared._

Rhapsody skipped the next few segments about Ireland's sorcerer politics and the ascension of its new, admittedly odd Council of Elders. Next up was the obituary, which was a rare section to write, since most sorcerers lived for several centuries, but occasionally, it was an unfortunate requirement to acknowledge those who'd passed away. Again, she skipped it, not because she'd edited to hell to sound as respectfully impartial as possible, but because it quelled any of the old grief returning. The result of hundred's years of living was that in the sorcerer world, nearly everybody knew each other and Rhapsody, although younger than most, still had met and knew and liked many mages and it made her no less miserable to report their demises. She could only imagine what Ireland's mages felt if they had to deal with outbreaks of Remnants and infestations of insane gods on a yearly basis.

The upcoming paragraph was by far the weakest point of her story. For all the ignoramuses out there, who weren't aware of what the hell a Remnant was, Rhapsody had thoughtfully decided to write a passage about them, to inform and hopefully, spark a bit of intrigue and maybe fright, if she was lucky, in her readers. But there was just one gaping dilemma. She knew jack shit about Remnants. Did any sorcerer, for that matter? Research was vital to her job, anyway, and she was rather good at it, but when it came to the body-snatching _things_, her resources were painstakingly limited. What were Remnants? All anyone told her was that they were snippets of old souls, angry ones at that, separated from their bodies. Well, frankly, Rhapsody wondered how that even happened. God, she wished Quillon was here. Not because he'd answer any of the questions she'd ask, but because he'd allay her worries and direct the conversation elsewhere, to a topic where Rhapsody wouldn't feel so helpless or uncertain.

But Quillon wouldn't arrive outside the building until half six and Rhapsody had a whole half hour to herself until the meeting, when she'd present her story to the Senior Overseer herself, Verity Twain. Classic case of out of the frying pan and into the fire right there. She had until then to read through her story, correct any mistakes, although after the eleventh time she'd had to print it, mistakes should've been few and far between, and accentuate it to the Chief Anchor's rhythm of speaking. That last one was something Rhapsody couldn't give less of a shit about, but Twain was very thorough and honestly, Rhapsody didn't mind her boss being thorough at her job. It was just the woman's insatiable urge to act like a complete bitch that irked her. Nevertheless, Twain held all the cards and Rhapsody was forced to bite back the snide comments that rose up and acknowledge her failings and flaws as a journalist, because inevitably, there was always something wrong with what she wrote about, the way she wrote it or which sorcerers were alluded to. But reading back her work, Rhapsody steeled herself and found nothing noteworthy for Twain to dig into. It all seemed perfectly fine to her trained eye. But she'd see, in twenty or so minutes.

Heaving a sigh, Rhapsody checked the time again and waited, wondering about stuff. Just random stuff, and not very important or relevant to her job. Minutes passed without a care and her own thoughts swam, drifting further and further away. Thoughts of her little brother waiting for her eventual return home tonight emerged and she smiled at the joy she was anticipating. No matter how gruelling a day at the office was, the sight of her brother's smile purged her of any hate or enmity with the idiots at the Global Link and reminded that someone did love her outside of appreciation for her journalistic skill. She thought of Quillon and the two of them meeting up tonight for a night out to fight crime and her smile blossomed. Even if they ended up just patrolling the neighbourhood and stopping off at a fast food place, it'd still be a night well spent. They'd ride around, he'd tell her about the dull day he'd had trying to find any leads and failing hard and he'd make her laugh and break that thick shell of coldness that seemed to coalesce around her with each day working in this place. She thought of the others, and their reactions to her storytelling and hers to theirs and they'd all congratulate her on getting her piece chosen and reported by the network. She knew the next Anodyne meeting wasn't until tomorrow night, as was the weekly custom every Wednesday night, but she didn't care. It was the expectation that buoyed her and that's all she needed to survive twenty minutes with Twain.

She thought of getting a good night's sleep. Tuesdays were shit in general, not just because of the deadline approaching for the next hit storyline to come flowing through during the weekend, so the slumber that awaited Rhapsody tonight was a pleasant thought to dwell on. Branching off of that, images of her lying down, dark hair spread out like a tainted halo across the pillow of her bed, sneaked inside her mind and with that, came memories of the dreams. She rarely remembered her dreams, but when she did, they were bloody awful. It wasn't every night and it didn't follow a pattern, but occasionally, when her mental defences were down, a stray ebbing nightmarish thing seeped inside and when she woke, it was with rivulets of sweat and raspy, hoarse breathing. No. It wasn't wise to think of that. Not now, not ever. It was just sleep that broke the barriers, that ripped through her defences and the dark thoughts invaded her head and clouded in with the familiar pangs of grief, anguish and sorrow. They were blockades. She'd broken through them for over a century. She wouldn't relinquish command of her sanity to them now, for God' sake.

Especially not with the highest priority meeting of the year only- she scanned the clock- _shit_. Ten minutes away. A bolt of panic pierced through her mind and flowed through her body like scolding water and she sat upright, realising just how low down she'd been perching on her elbows. Any further and her head would've touched the desk. It was strange, how Sensitives possessed greater control over their minds than any other mage without the use of a magical tool, yet still had the capacity to get lost in their thoughts once in a while. Or was it just her? It didn't matter. Irrelevant. Rhapsody was going to be late. She fumbled for her papers, but her eyesight was still blurry from her mulling and her arm knocked the pile off the desk and onto the floor. Cursing, she bent down to swipe them up and re-order them. The panic turned into anger and she glanced at the door, praying no one would walk in and see this. Whoever it was, they wouldn't help, and she didn't even dare to think what Flash and Jagged's reactions to it would be. Not at all enjoyable for her, certainly. As memories of her rivals' taunts resonated in her head, her urgency increased and so did her speed. Eventually, she collected up her work and triple-checked they were in the correct order and as she gathered her wits, she let slip another curse, this one in relief. She strode out of her office, stealing a look at the exterior of the door. She laughed bitterly. Her old partner's name was still engraved onto the grey plaque, she realised. Poor bloke. It wasn't his fault she'd been deemed 'unamenable' by her peers and instead of fighting the label, she'd angrily embraced it. It wasn't often Rhapsody accepted expectations put upon her but bullying the guy into submission seemed the easiest thing at the time to do. It wasn't often she regretted her actions either but spurring that man into quitting the job never failed to cause a spike of lament rise up. Quillon hadn't let her hear the end of that one for a month. After knowing about that latest paper-drop she'd endured, she doubted he wouldn't let her hear the end of this little farce either.

It was quiet today, not a soul in the corridors, although the incessant rhythm of fingers smashing keyboards and mouse-clicking emanated from all the different doors. Not surprising. The general atmosphere of Tuesdays was relentless work in preparation for the Head Overseer's evaluation of the work rate and overall efficiency of the 'force'. Although that arrived only every four months, and this one wasn't until the last day of January, it was the shared belief of the sorcerers here that getting all of the workload out the way and done with, something Rhapsody effortlessly got on board with, since that was her whole philosophy with life in general. Finish the dull shit, then enjoy yourself. One heap of draining labour on a chilly Tuesday evening and you can spend the rest of the week resting on your laurels. No rest for the wicked, Rhapsody smiled as she swiftly turned a corridor and Twain's foreboding office was in sight. She approached, tentatively, as if the door to her boss's domain was a sleeping dragon. Rhapsody had never encountered a dragon, and quite honestly, doubted their very existence but she was certain that the wrath Twain could muster on a bad day was worse than an attacking dragon a hundred-fold.

She willed her body to relax. There was nothing to worry about. Even if her story was utter bollocks, Twain knew Rhapsody was too good a journalist to let go and Rhapsody knew that Twain knew that, so there. Even if the two women had never seen eye to eye inside or outside of their jobs, Twain was the kind of woman who prioritised the job's efficiency over personal matters. Begrudgingly, maybe, but still, it added a level of reassurance to the proceedings and Rhapsody's concerns lessened somewhat. She walked on. She happened to glance to her right and spotted Flash and Jagged's office, her rivals' names etched onto it proudly. Smirking, she raised her middle finger up at it as she passed and heard a door opening up ahead. Shit. Adrenaline clutched Rhapsody's heart as she darted her hand down and out of sight, but to her relief, it wasn't Twain who was emerging out of the office up ahead. It was two people she'd never seen before. Or maybe she had. Just not interacted with or ever made to co-organise something with them.

Did they work here? God, she couldn't remember. Some days, she had trouble finding her pen under her desk, never mind recognise the faces of two mages she'd only had fleeting encounters, if any, with. Still, there was something striking about them. Maybe it was because the woman was smiling at Rhapsody. No one at work smiled at her. Either people knew and didn't like her, or people didn't know her and thus had no reason to like her. It was disarming, the friendly vibes she was getting from these two mages as they approached her down the corridor. She supposed she just wasn't used to such a vibe here of all places. Whereas Rhapsody's eyes were sparkling malachite green and dark hair long, this woman's eyes were a milk chocolate brown and radiated warmth, with tawny hair cut short and neat, a fringe and pretty earrings framing her face. Just at a glance, Rhapsody deduced she was the leader of the pair, as the man struggling to keep in step with her long strides was nowhere near as immediately impressive. He was tall, an inch or so above Rhapsody, but lanky and not very fit. His mousy hair was tousled messily and not in a way that oozed charisma and his teal eyes flitted to the floor and back to his friend, as if begging her not to start a conversation with this random stranger in the corridor. Unfortunately, that just what this woman did.

"Hi," she said and stopped in her tracks. The guy forced himself to stop too to avoid treading on the back of his lady friend's shoes. Rhapsody blinked. Damn. She went on automatic.

"Hey," she returned dumbly. Her mind was squirming to try and escape the exchange, not even because of the meeting with Twain, she just didn't know a thing about social graces anymore, unless she willingly initiated them and she didn't know a thing about these people, so she was pretty much disarmed. On the spot. She hated that, but at least she wasn't under attack or anything. The woman seemed to notice her discomfort though and the smile faltered from one of brightness to assurance.

"Better warn you about the old bag," she joked, "I'd wait a few minutes before going in. She a little, erm…livid right now."

"She's always livid," said Rhapsody and the other woman giggled, earning a sharp disapproving glance from her friend, who seemingly didn't like the noise piercing the thick silence elsewhere in the corridor.

"That she is. We were just in there to give in some reports and she seemed to be in a very bad mood, wasn't she?" the woman nudged the man, who nodded and murmured something Rhapsody didn't hear. Evidently, the woman did, and she huffed although Rhapsody detected the mocking behind it.

"Well, I suppose calling her a bad-tempered mule didn't exactly help matters, but hey…It doesn't do firing two of your employees less than a week away from Evaluation Day, does it? Puts a shit stain on your record, that does," Seeming to notice she was rambling a little, the woman smiled again and held her hand out. "I'm Temerity, by the way. Temerity Candour."

Rhapsody shook the woman called Temerity's hand. "Rhapsody Gossip," she introduced and judging from the way Temerity's eyes neither bulged or narrowed, Rhapsody guessed she really didn't know who she was, which was fortunate.

"Pleased to meet you, Rhapsody," said Temerity, her face splitting into a wide grin again, "This right here is my partner in crime, Diego," she gestured to the man, Diego, who offered his hand too in greeting along with a meek smile. Rhapsody gladly returned the shake, giving him a smile that seemed to ease him a little. "Diego Yellowbelly."

Before Rhapsody's snort even had an opportunity to erupt, Diego's gawping mien cut her off as his eyes flitted to Temerity. "Tem, what-" he said before Temerity interrupted him smoothly and quickly.

"Diego, it's fine, honestly. It's your name. You chose it, remember? Out of all the names in all the world, you made it yours and there's nothing wrong with that."

"But Tem, I-"

"Oh, don't give me that shit, Diego. You, sir, are a brilliant sorcerer and journalist. Really, you're an awesome guy in general."

Diego's face flushed as Temerity hooked her arm through his. "Well, I mean-"

"No, no," Temerity shook her head and tapped Diego on the chest, "Never mind that. Why don't you pop off to our office and get your things ready? We're hitting the town tonight and we're getting pissed with some of that delicious ale down at the Wyrmling's Nest, so best go and prepare, huh?" Temerity waited until Diego nodded and then her eyes threatened to pop out of her sockets as she suddenly remembered Rhapsody was there. "You could come with us!"

"What?" said Rhapsody, caught off guard a little.

"Why not? You seem cool and the more the merrier, right?" Temerity leaned in. "I'll tell you what, though. You've said hello back to us and you're still here, so you're already leaps and bounds above the other idiots that work in this shithole."

She was out of her depth. Rhapsody hadn't the slightest clue what to say. Oh, she knew she had quite a mouth on her, but it wasn't until after she left work that she truly unwound. She felt good that she'd been invited out to a fun night, and then it hit her that she had errands to run with Quillon later and she felt bad. Tentatively, she took in Temerity's beaming smile and returned it with one of reluctance.

"I'm afraid I can't do tonight. Tomorrow night, maybe?"

"That's fine, yeah!" the enthusiasm of her nod was a trifle startling, but Rhapsody's eyes flickered to Diego. "Oh, don't worry about him," chuckled Temerity, "Once he's had a couple of ciders, you can only belt him up with another pint!"

"I'll go and get everything in order for tonight, then," piped up Diego, disentangling himself from Temerity's hook, which prompted a pout from the female sorcerer.

"Oh, I suppose so," sighed Temerity, all too aware of the smirk creeping onto her face, "I did tell you to go and do that, didn't I? That's me, right big scatterbrain. Go on then. Better scamper away now, we've got less and less time everyday to live!" Dutifully, Diego scampered away and shot a farewell nod Rhapsody's way and Rhapsody watched him go, stumbling slightly.

When Diego was gone, Rhapsody looked back and noticed Temerity's smile. She was still watching where Diego had just vanished from and the softness in it, so different to the eccentric, exuberant smiles of before, made something in Rhapsody's heart clench. Eventually, Temerity snapped her attention back to the only other person there.

"Don't mind Diego," she said, "He's a little shy at first but when you get to know him better, or just hand him a bottle of cider, he gets chattier than the world's chattiest person, whoever that is. Probably me. Anyway, so are you heading into the vampire's den?"

"I'm sorry?" Rhapsody said but relaxed when Temerity rolled her eyes and cast a thumb at Twain's office. "Oh, yeah. Yes. Not that I want to, I mean. She can be difficult, sometimes, yeah."

"I mean yeah, I don't know what side of the bed she fell out of this morning. Probably fell off both sides, for completionist's sake. Wouldn't surprise me, meticulous old bat."

They laughed. It was freeing in a way. Rhapsody hadn't mustered the courage or energy to laugh at work for a very long time.

"What did you do that pissed her off so much?" asked Rhapsody, emboldened by her casual swearing. Often, the demeanour here was cold and businesslike in every mage but Temerity's well, temerity, was a blast of fresh air. Hell, even Diego's quiet nature was better than the usual crude jibes and aloofness. Temerity shrugged in response.

"God knows. It might've been when I knocked over her coffee when handing her those papers, accidentally I swear, or it could've been when I tried to steal her pen without her catching me, but guess what happened?"

"She caught you?" Rhapsody guessed.

"Correct!" replied Temerity, rolling her 'r's.

Rhapsody grinned. "Why were trying to steal her pens? Not that I'm discouraging you or anything, but that sounds like an invitation for trouble straight up."

"It makes life interesting," Temerity said, almost shrugging, but decided on a comical grimace instead, "I've been doing it for months and besides, everyone knows the higher-ups and the Overseers and all them lot get much better pens. Diego once told me they even get a fresh pen-set every day. Jammy gits, eh? Oh, and I'll tell you what," At this, Temerity glanced around for any eavesdroppers.

Amused at the turn of attitude and yet a mite cautious of the strange conspiratorial tone with which she hovered, Rhapsody nonetheless acquiesced when Temerity gestured for her to lean in and she spoke quietly, "That spike of adrenaline you get when you're mind's racing back and forth, thinking _Oh shit has she seen me, has she not seen me?_, is enough to stop you nodding off in there, let me tell you."

Rhapsody frowned. Was that it? Better humour her, though. Just in case. "Oh, I agree. Although when she's speaking, I'd be surprised you could get a wink in. She roars like a bloody dragon."

Temerity laughed again. "Dragon, eh? I'll have to remember that one for the future. Although I heard dragons are pretty much extinct now, I think we've found the next big great fire-breather just twenty metres away." She cackled a little more, then, as if she'd been struck, Temerity froze, and her forehead creased in a frown. It didn't suit her, Rhapsody realised. After all the joyous beams she'd shown beforehand, for the first time it made her look serious. Rhapsody didn't like it.

"Rhapsody? Rhapsody Gossip? That sounds familiar, actually. Wonder why that is. God, I'm useless at names, I am," Temerity scratched her head and Rhapsody seized the chance that opened up, a strange confidence bubbling up from somewhere.

"I'm sure it'll come to you," she said, patting Temerity's shoulder and subtly moving around her as she did do, "But I'll see you tomorrow night, right? The Wyrmling's Nest you said? Yeah, I know where that is. See you then." Suddenly, Rhapsody was strolling to the Senior Overseer's office and Temerity was confusedly looking around.

"Rhapsody, wait!" said Temerity, ignoring the hushes that bombarded her from behind closed office doors. Rhapsody bit her lip and quashed the toiling stew in her belly. She turned and saw Temerity's frown, and quickly realised the mage's intentions weren't aggressive. "I just wanted to ask you which department you were in. Oh, and whereabouts is your office?"

Licking her lips, Rhapsody tilted her head the way she'd came. "Just around that corner and to the left. Not far away, though. You can see the name engraved on it. Oh, and I'm in R&A."

"Reconnaissance and Accounting?" Temerity's smile was returning, "Damn. That's a good one. Me and Diego were kind of aiming for that ourselves, but we're stuck in Retrieval. We're basically whipping boy and girl off fetching bits and pieces for others. But then again, we've only been here, what? Three, four years? No more than five. It'd be stupid to expect a journalistic assignment off the bat. How about you?"

"Thirty-two and counting," Rhapsody answered, injecting a bit of dryness into it, "Trust me, it's not all that."

"Well, I mean at least with R&A, you get to leave the building every now and then on an info hunt, or to have a fag. Not that I smoke, like, but I probably would if it got me five minutes outside in the fresh air. Anyway, reason I asked was because we're only two corridors down on the right. We could come and visit you."

"Visit me?"

Temerity did that almost frighteningly fast nod of hers. "Yep. We can come and hang out. I'll bring Diego with me, if he wants to. And I suppose if you want to, as well."

Rhapsody shrugged, realised it probably came across as half-hearted, and went to nod, although it was nowhere near as vicious as Temerity's. "No, I'd like that. He can come too, it's just well…what would we do? Evaluation Day's in less than a week."

"Oh yeah!" Temerity slapped her head. "Forgot about that. Damn it. Fine then, how about this? We'll meet up only after work for this week and then after _The Man_ does his sweep, we'll meet up when we can in each other's areas and chill out when we have breaks. You can give us pointers on R&A, and we'll do…something that will benefit you in some way. We hope, anyway. I'll think of something."

"Sounds good," said Rhapsody, blinking. Temerity's eyes widened.

"Oh shit! That came out wrong. No! Don't worry, no. We're not after you just to get promoted, nothing like that. Shit, sorry. It's just that well…Diego and I are new like we said. We don't really have many friends and I probably could go out and make some, but Diego's a bit too, well, quiet, to do anything like that. I kind of have to look after him."

"No, no," Rhapsody found herself laughing a little, "It's fine. I wasn't thinking of anything like that. It's just I'm a bit overwhelmed, that's all. I'd like to do all that stuff you said. Really."

"Really?"

"Yup." Rhapsody was gauging Temerity's reaction and didn't expect the brightness of her subsequent smile.

"Oh my God, that's great! Never can have too many friends, that's what I say. Well, I don't, but now that we have a new friend, I'll start! But seriously, that's awesome. I just hope we don't end up ruining your life or something, but hey…Let's focus on the positive."

Chuckling, Rhapsody sneaked a glance at her phone when Temerity's laugh turned into a wild cough, but it was depleted of battery. She was certain she was late by now.

"Sure. Hey listen," Rhapsody started, but Temerity beat her to it.

"Hey, wait! You're meant to be with the dragon now, aren't you?" she said, and beckoned to the door, "Better hurry. I think I've distracted you long enough. You're getting a review of your story?"

"Yeah, I-" Cutting off Rhapsody's reply with a grab to her elbow, Temerity dragged her to Twain's door and marched there like she was off to war.

"Brilliant! Well, hope it goes well. Mind the coffee stain when you go in. If you get a good vibe, well done and if not, then a stay at the Wyrmling's Nest will do you good. Drown your sorrows and all that!" Before she could say anything, Rhapsody was planted in front of the foreboding entrance to the Senior Overseer's office and gazed emptily at it. Temerity slapped her back and flashed her a cheeky grin. "Best of luck! See you tomorrow, Rhapsody."

Her reply lost to the ages, Rhapsody's heart clenched when Temerity knocked on and promptly departed, her footsteps fading behind as new ones came from in front. Damn it. This was probably why Rhapsody had stopped making friends here. She needed isolation, she couldn't afford to be preoccupied with other people when her story, her job and all that jazz were in jeopardy. She'd originally hoped to take her time to approach Twain, practice what she'd say and all the reactions to the criticism she'd receive and then endure the routine as per usual. It was simple. Hell, she'd been doing exactly that for thirty-two years. Now? She'd made two friends and she was a nervous wreck. She honestly didn't know why she was like this. Outside, in the world of crime and beleaguered society, she was a force of good, of righteous destruction. In here, she was a pathetic, quivering toad, just like when she was at home and she'd escaped another nightmare. Once again, she wished to dear God that Quillon was here. But he wasn't. It was just her. Alone. No friends. _No_. Two friends, Rhapsody reminded herself of that. Sure, they weren't here right now, but most likely they were thinking of her, sincerely hoping she'd pull through and get this whole ordeal over with.

Something warm coiled around her insides, and Rhapsody felt herself straighten, shoulders ever so slightly less hunched. She stopped rubbing her sweaty palms. Refused to be scared. She'd be encountering much scarier things later tonight and in the foreseeable future, so she relaxed and let her body droop a little. Not enough to be off guard, but enough so the tension rushed away from her. Her friend, _friend_, Temerity's retreating steps gradually vanished, and the approaching ones ceased. Rhapsody banished thoughts of nightmares from her mind as the door opened and Verity Twain beheld her standing there. It was time to tame the dragon.

_Author's Notes: Thanks for reading, everything seems to be coming along very smoothly, fingers crossed. Seems a weekly upload is likely for the near future, so expect the third chapter around the same time next Thursday. If there's any changes in the schedule, I'll let you know in one of these little notes so as to avoid confusion. That's all for now, though and I hope you enjoyed. Next time: We will see if our protagonist made the grade..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

"Gossip," welcomed Twain tersely, "Come in."

Rhapsody broke the thankfully brief eye contact and walked past her boss into the office, Twain closing the door behind her. The room was as it always was, ordered neatly and organised to the last detail. Thick and thin books of all textures and materials lined the mahogany shelves in the corner, lending a slight classical flavour to the place. In a way, it reminded Rhapsody very much of Twain herself. Old-fashioned, severe and sometimes, just a little too spic and span to be tolerable. Speaking of Twain, she was the same as ever, too. Slender, silvery black hair tied into a bun, unremarkable clothes that blended in disturbingly well with the dull brown of the surrounding wallpaper. Clutching her papers close to her chest, Rhapsody began to approach the visitor's seat or the 'Torture Chair' as some of the mages deemed it. She didn't sit in it. Firstly, because she didn't want to and second, because Twain hadn't offered it to her yet. Twain was many things. A stickler for politeness was one of them.

"You're four minutes late, Gossip," said Twain blandly, gliding around Rhapsody towards her desk, "Were you detained or just inept at timekeeping?"

Rhapsody bit her lip, her ire already curdling, but fought down the irritation and watched Twain snatch up her glasses impassively. "Detained, ma'am. I had a bit of a run-in with some…" she hesitated, "Friends! Friends in the corridor. They were very, uh, insistent I stop by. We had some things to discuss. Work stuff." Rhapsody nearly rolled her eyes at how stupid that sounded. Twain was peering at her, those angular spectacles and enlarged eyes giving her the uncanny look of a praying mantis readying to pounce.

"I'm sure you had no other choice," Twain said at last and lowered herself down into her chair with no small amount of elegance, "Candour and Yellowbelly, wasn't it?"

"That it was," confirmed Rhapsody and noticed Twain's pale lips purse slightly.

"I see. I wasn't aware you knew them."

Rhapsody frowned, secretly wanting to tell the old bag that her social life was no one's business but her own. But she was aware of the story she was holding and had painstakingly laboured over for the past few weeks, and decided it was best to answer politely and swiftly. Hopefully, Twain would get bored of the topic and move onto more journalistic matters. "Oh, I didn't. I just got acquainted with them today."

"Making friends when you were supposed to be in here? With me? I see, Gossip." Twain blinked and didn't say anything for a while, then outstretched her arm, gesturing to the guest chair, which Rhapsody responded to with a raised hand in refusal. She needed to be in full possession of her wits and sitting down would make her feel trapped or at least under pressure. Nodding, Twain beckoned for Rhapsody to come nearer and having no other choice, Rhapsody did so, handing her boss the story she'd written. If it was the same routine as always, then it entailed Twain reading over it once for content and twice for correction. During that time, Rhapsody often wandered over to the bookcase and pretended to be immersed in a random tome, when in reality, she was cautiously keeping an eye open for Twain's reactions and little tics she did when analysing something.

They'd been here at the Global Link together for ages, but were separated by two sturdy office doors and the even thicker, almost impregnable barrier between work and pleasure, the barricade that halted any progress beyond a employer and employee relationship. It was almost surreal, whenever they actually met face to face or held a conversation. It felt unnatural. It was like bringing two incompatible elements of the universe together and waiting for the inevitable catastrophe resulting from their meeting to strike. Rhapsody was a liar if she claimed that she'd never once desired to speak with Twain outside of a professional setting, because she remembered their first meeting and her finding the older sorcerer so mesmerising.

That Verity Twain had been obliging, kind and fascinating. The way she'd carried herself, so full of poise and sophistication, yet so kind and good-natured, had struck Rhapsody, who at the time, was very nervous about beginning at the Global Link. They were close, Twain guiding her around, telling her the ins and outs, dishing out bits of advice and sharing the best of stories. But over time, they drifted apart. Rhapsody still didn't know why. Or how, for that matter. Twain had grown colder, distancing herself more and more. Suddenly, she didn't have the time to spend with Rhapsody and had run short of stories to tell. Nothing major had changed. Neither had been promoted nor demoted. So when it came to explaining it, Rhapsody was lacking in any coherent or sensible reason as to why their relationship was now nothing but a thick, freezing thing and if Twain kept on with her side of things, it'd stay that way.

Twain cleared her throat. Rhapsody blinked. She was getting too engulfed in the past. She handed over her story and Twain's eyes lingered on her as she adjusted her glasses. When the older woman's eyes flickered down to the first page, Rhapsody quietly stepped away and headed for the shelf, still keeping an ear out for all the tell-tale hums and grunts that meant either disapproval, agreement or marvel. It was usually the first. As she reached the bookcase, Rhapsody let her fingers trace the bindings of the ones on the top shelf, remembering that she'd flicked through, or imitated flicking through, all of them. None of them were very interesting anyway. The only one that had really caught her attention was one about Monster Hunting, but she'd acquired that out of work anyway and saw no need to re-read here, especially in the stifling atmosphere that she'd been thrown into now. Even if it was a classic slice of sorcerer literature. There was a bizarrely enticing charisma about the way the Monster Hunter books were told by their respective narrators, the Monster Hunters themselves, a kind of charm that Rhapsody admitted she failed to grasp. Not that she was trying to emulate it by any means, but a bit of inspiration from your idols was worth it. Most of the time.

So instead of selecting that, Rhapsody scanned the second shelf down, the one she wasn't so familiar with. These were even drearier upon first inspection. Grey gloomy grimoires and burly beaten blocks that passed for reading material adorned the aisle and honestly, none of them remotely appealed to her, but Twain coughed a little to her right and Rhapsody plucked out the first random tome that her hand rested on and deposited herself in the reading chair, which despite its plush purple shade and soft surface, crept Rhapsody out no end. It was probably the screaming visages carved into its armrests. Gargoyles? Trolls? Whatever they were, they were ugly and misshapen and reminded Rhapsody yet again of the olden taste that festooned the room. She stole a final glance at the other gargoyle in the office, Twain herself, and observed her. She seemed enraptured by Rhapsody's story, but Rhapsody didn't let the impression fool her. Twain was scrutinising it to the highest degree, as was her reputation, to weed out any and all errors. Rhapsody returned her attention back to the book, and nearly flinched when she first took a proper look at the front cover.

It was untitled. There was no writing, no title that she could read, but there were markings, engravings carved deeply into the binding. It was a strange material. It reminded Rhapsody of the same substance often cast into battle gear and magic armour, although it was reasonably sporadic these days, and welders or tailors skilled enough to interlace it even more so. But it wasn't the unnervingly smooth matter that made up the binding that struck her. It was the hollowed skull fused into the cover. That was creepy enough in itself, but chills danced down Rhapsody's spine when she realised it was definitely not a human skull. It was too squat, the jawbone, what remained of it, was too flat and the jutting teeth were fanged and sharp. Inhuman. Th closest thing it resembled was a goblin or an extremely overweight troll. Maybe it was both. A Goll? A Troblin? She was becoming distracted again. There were several cracks and punctures in the skull's cranium and a pointed symbol, six spikes impaling a circle, painted on in dried, ancient red. Rhapsody wondered if it was blood.

Faded as it was, that red stood out like a beacon and slowly, the room around her blurred, became out of focus. On the other hand, the book sharpened and the scarred leather or whatever it was now seemed to be brand-new and freshly wound. The red brightened, no longer the claret shade of parched vintage wine, but a shining vivid scarlet. It filled her vision, her surroundings eaten up by the ravenous red until there was nothing but her and the blinding light of the ruby world. It _throbbed_. Everything was as a heartbeat pumping with heat and energy and blood and life. The book was gone. Vanished. Snatched into oblivion. But the skull stayed. It was mending. Teeth were rushing out of nowhere to fill in where teeth were lost. The holes were healing up, white bone forming like the delicate weaving of a spider's web. It was near complete. Suddenly, the eye holes were filled with fire and the jaw finished repairing and opened of its own accord and the image prodded Rhapsody into blinking. The terror snapped and she refused to stare any more into the visage's maw of madness.

Rhapsody willed it to stop. And it did. As she clamped her eyes shut, the red began to disperse, the blackness beating it back. After an age, she risked a look and the void of scarlet had dimmed to nothing, the skull was broken and shattered and the thick leathery exterior had returned. It was bound once again. She didn't just mean the volume in her hands either. Whatever dark magic was floating around this book was undeniably strong, but it was old and had no doubt weakened with the passing centuries. Any untrained Sensitive would be lost by now. Lucky for her, she'd been stuck with these powers for over a century and instead of moaning, had devoted many days to harnessing and refining it. Many agonising, despairingly harrowing days. Reluctantly, she averted her eyes and put the grim treatise back on the shelf, relief palpable when she was no longer touching it. _Well_, she reflected, _that was some surreal shit_.

"Gossip, come here," someone said and Rhapsody felt snapped out of a haze, like a dense smog had just been smacked away by this person's voice. She glanced over at its source and- Oh yeah. Twain. The Senior Overseer was staring at her, eyebrow arched expectantly. All the familiar feelings of claustrophobia and anxiety came prancing back and Rhapsody ground her teeth, cursing herself silently for not just sitting down and twiddling her thumbs. Regardless, she obeyed and travelled to the desk, a little grateful to put some distance between her and that crazy book. Although it begged the question: what the hell was Twain doing with something like that? Was she hoarding it for her own sinister purposes? Was Rhapsody's boss a dark arcanist in secret? Or might she just be keeping it safe, away from all the greedy and corrupted sorcerers who'd kill for such a ledger? Rhapsody didn't know how much Twain saw, but it was best to keep it to business for now. Then again, knowing Twain, was _that_ even a good idea?

Nevertheless, Rhapsody stood and faced her boss and her boss rose, ordering the papers back into a neat bundle. She clenched her jaw, finding the right wording. "I've read it, Gossip. A…fairly enjoyable piece, I must say. Still room for improvement, though. There's always room for improvement."

"Well, what's wrong with it?" asked Rhapsody, instantly chiding herself for how petulant she sounded, but Twain ignored it.

"Oh, there's nothing inherently wrong with it. It needs a bit of cutting down and some of the language is a bit flowery, but it has potential, I'll give it that." Hesitating a little, Twain removed her glasses and plucked out a handkerchief from her pocket, cleaning them, "You'll have time to polish it. On Evaluation Day, as you know, I will call in the journalist whose story is chosen to be distributed to all the other Sanctuaries and if you are not chosen, you'll be told. Clear?"

Rhapsody resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, ma'am. I'm aware. I have been working here for over thirty years, you know."

"I know," Twain replied and Rhapsody got a hint that the woman was coldly reminiscing those three decades and remembering that she and Rhapsody didn't get along that well. It seemed every year of that time showed through in the ridges on her frowning face.

"Well, what tips can I improve off, then?" Rhapsody asked and Twain donned her specs again.

"Overall, it's a competent piece, Gossip. You stick to the headline matter admirably yet put just enough time aside for the arguably more boring factors like sorcerer politics. Readers will appreciate that. It'll make the more exciting parts stand out more. No obvious errors that I can see. I'll keep it with me overnight though and return it to you in the morning with annotations. Is that fine with you?"

Rhapsody didn't really have much of a choice. "Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent," nodded Twain with little to no enthusiasm, "One or two pointers before you walk out on me though. This section, hang on, let me find it…. Here." She showed Rhapsody the page in question and with a perfunctory tap with her pen, pointed out the relevant paragraph. Honestly, Rhapsody didn't know whether to be surprised that Twain's pen wasn't in Temerity's thieving hands by now, or to be completely unsurprised at which part of the story was apparently flawed. She played it cool, though.

"Oh, what's up with it?"

Twain appraised her as if the answer was obvious. "Of course, in terms of spelling, grammar and punctuation, it's a masterpiece. Although I'd expect that from any sorcerer, or mortal for that matter, above the age of twelve. You're nearly a hundred, correct? Don't let it get to your head."

"I'm a hundred and twenty," muttered Rhapsody but Twain spoke over her.

"It's the subject you're talking about."

"Remnants?"

"Indeed. Your lack of knowledge is obvious from the outset. Phrasing it eloquently won't make it better. You don't know a thing about them, save what you've heard from fable and history, and that apparently is nothing at all."

Biting her tongue, Rhapsody shrugged, emitting nonchalance as best she could. "Say you're right-"

"I am."

"-Well, who does, then? They've been around for centuries. But no one's ever been able to study them properly outside of a Soul Catcher because of the danger of possession."

"You'll have to research more into the topic, Gossip," said Twain, "This is not enough, I'm afraid. Everything else needs a simple tune-up, but that's the one weak point that's bringing you down. If you hope to accomplish getting your story into the official Link, you'll need to conduct further forays into Remnants, their history and nature. Not just describing in detail how dark and dangerous they are and referring to the last two Outbreaks."

"Well, what can I do?" inquired Rhapsody, more as a show of her bubbling anger than a genuine question, "I can't just find a Remnant, let it possess me to understand the experience and politely ask it to leave again! Besides, I don't know anyone who's been possessed before and if I did, they wouldn't remember."

"Not necessarily," said Twain smugly, "Certain sorcerers can recall sensations. Little bits and pieces of feeling more than what they were. Unfortunately, it drives them mad, when their quest to reclaim it often ends in failure. Suicide is a common option. Not always, but it happens."

"That makes it even harder, then, doesn't it? Not that you'll help me or anything!"

Twain's eyes glinted and Rhapsody quickly backed down. "On the contrary, the Link's resources are yours. But only as they always are. Feel free to frequent the library for anything. The Chief Librarian is a solid source of assistance in many fields."

"The Chief Librarian's an idiot," Rhapsody spat and promised to scold herself later for blurting that out. You don't poke a wounded predator with a stick, in case you get mauled, and Twain looked about ready to maul right now.

"I see. Well, that's your choice. But like I said, Gossip, it is ultimately my choice as to which piece makes it and which ones don't. It's a matter of 'if' not 'when'. There are several others that are very auspicious, especially Flash and Jagged's. I believe my eye has been lured to theirs on more than one occasion."

_Oh, you bitch_. That got her, she had to admit. Twain was aware of the bitter rivalry between Rhapsody and the other two journalists, and although she refrained from commenting on it, it appeared Rhapsody had riled up enough to get her to actually tease about it. It was time to shut up and back down.

"But by all means," declared Twain, motioning to the door, "consult your friends Candour and Yellowbelly for any advice. I wish you luck in that most arduous of tasks, Gossip, I really do. Maybe you can tell Yellowbelly to try and shut up that colleague of his every once in a while, and while you're at it, tell said colleague to stop stealing my pens. Or that man you hitch a lift with before and after work every day. He's clearly interesting enough to have seized your attention."

Rhapsody reddened. "We're just friends," she said, and Twain scoffed. It didn't become the prim and prudish old woman, and that made it worse.

"I'm sure. Now please leave, if you don't mind."

"Fine!" She didn't care about the petulance this time. So much for taming the dragon. It'd breathed an inferno at her and now she was scampering away to escape any more of its fiery wrath. It just wasn't worth it. She barged through the door and out into the corridor, noticing several sorcerers were beginning to exit their offices themselves. The end of the day was in reach. But Twain wasn't done with her yet.

"Gossip, wait a moment," she commanded, although she phrased it softly, like a suggestion. Although it was one Rhapsody had every intention to refuse to adhere to, she stopped walking, turned around and faced her boss anyway, eyebrows raised in anticipation. Twain didn't look so angry anymore. More like rueful. A trace of regret was evident in her eyes, but when Rhapsody met them, she fought it away and out of sight. It was almost admirable, how she shifted her expression so quickly.

"What? I need to go now, ma'am. The Head Overseer doesn't like us common folk in the building after seven."

"It's about your partner," answered Twain, "Your ex-partner, I should say."

"What about it?"

"How is he? Do you know?"

Rhapsody scrunched up her face. At this stage, politeness was irrelevant. "I don't have the slightest idea. I haven't even seen him for a year, not since he packed up his belongings and left. To be honest, I don't care."

Twain kept impressively impassive. "I see. Well, it's telling of your sterling character that at the moment, you can keep up with other journalists who have their other halves working on their pieces with them."

"Wow. Thanks," drawled Rhapsody, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"But it's impossible to do it all on your own. You'll need someone with you, eventually, to feed you ideas, to inspire you. Even if it's just a quick read-over what you've done, it's important to have someone at your back. You understand that, surely?"

Rhapsody wasn't in the mood to talk about this. Twain's desire to seek out a suitable candidate to be her partner had been annoying from Day One and had just got worse. To be fair to her, her determination was commendable, and her last partner had definitely been the best one thus far, but if it took Twain that long to get her a guy who she could even bear to be in the same room with, Rhapsody considered quitting the job after the next payday to get away from enduring another three decades of incompatible suitors. That was another thing. Coincidentally or not, they were all guys. It felt like Twain was trying to act as a matronly matchmaker and whether that was inadvertent or not, it almost made Rhapsody retch.

"I guess I'll just have to manage on my own for a while, ma'am," Rhapsody replied, "Oh, and never fear. I won't stay here forever. Bet that makes you happy, huh?" With that, Rhapsody turned and left. She shoved her way through the gathering masses of eager co-workers clamouring to go home and get a good night's sleep or a good night out with the lads or lasses. Knowing today's luck, she'd bump smack bang into Jagged's massive form and be trapped by Flash's massive ego, but it seemed, as she twisted the doorknob to her office, she was fortunate. She hadn't brought up the tome of horrors, but she was certain that thing had no business being there. Storing it away in the recesses of her mind for later, she entered and immediately shut the door, cutting off the hum of dry conversation.

No wrapped up was she in the boiling rage that was lacing her mind, and the worry of the possibility that she'd jeopardised the success of her story, that she didn't notice the man in the corner of the room for a full eleven seconds as she busied herself with getting her things ready. Arms crossed, leaning against the filing cabinet; hair black and effortlessly charming despite its unkempt state and his clothes casual yet worn with pride informed her who it was. When she did realise he was there, she desisted, huffed and looked at him fully. He was grinning. She wasn't feeling like returning it, so she sighed and continued loading her handbag the essentials. His grin was so bright, she could see it falter even out of the corner of her eye. He uncrossed his arms and stood up straight wandering over to her. He didn't offer to help her get ready. She appreciated that.

"Bad day, I'm guessing?" he tried.

"Right first time. Well done."

Somehow sensing her temper, and yet characteristically smoothly, Quillon Snitch's grin found its way back and he chuckled. "However!" he clasped his hands and rubbed them earnestly, "It's all over now. Need any help?"

"Fine, thanks. Don't think you've offered to help me before now, though. What's with that?"

"Well, I doubt I've ever seen you this mad before. You look ready to tear off someone's head at the neck! Although I can't imagine where else you'd tear it off at."

"That sounds more like a reason why you'd want to stay away from me."

"_Au contraire_, _Mademoiselle_, you of all people how much I adore dealing with danger. Dicing with death! Juggling with my jugular."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

Quillon playfully tilted his head and smiled. "Help you?"

"Yep."

"When you've just finished organising your handbag?"

"I still need some things."

"No, you don't."

"I don't?"

"Nope. Nothing at all."

"How'd you come by that, then?"

"So it's true?"

Rhapsody let her eyes roll. "Yes, it's true."

"Well, I just figured it out. We've known each other long enough for me to memorise everything you take to work in that bag."

"Maybe I forgot something."

"Maybe you're just creating excuses to throw me off."

"Damn."

"I've just observed you arranging said bag with the tell-tale precision you always do. Nothing you usually have is out on the desk or on the floor or in this delightful cabinet I've been leaning on for the past few minutes. The last thing you always put inside is your pen, lovingly tucked inside the side-pocket, within easy reach but out of sight and safe from outside influence or heaven forbid, _damage_. I just saw you do that and you didn't get flustered afterwards, which means you haven't forgotten anything."

Rhapsody was speechless. "Flustered?"

"Yes, indeed."

"I get _flustered_?"

"Oh dear. Did I cross a line?"

"Seriously?"

"Seems a bit of a poor choice in hindsight." Grimacing, Quillon watched Rhapsody shove some notes into her desk drawers and nudge past him to deposit some papers into the file trays in the leaned-upon cabinet.

"I'll bloody say it is!"

"I'm awfully sorry."

Rhapsody shut the cabinet tray. Hard. She locked it out of habit, despite theft being laughably unlikely, and turned to stare at Quillon with the most deadpan expression she could humanly muster.

"Escort me out of this hellhole, and I'll forgive you," she told him and he looked down, nodded and she glimpsed the grin threatening to form.

"Your wish is my command!" Quillon announced and pounced upon the door, holding it open for Rhapsody. She walked through, gracing him with a curt nod, and he closed it and followed. No use locking it. The caretaker always scouted round and double-checked everything. The masses of mages had died down a little, with one or two forgetful employees rushing back to their office and such, but they were too preoccupied to pay a whit of attention to Quillon and her. Good thing, too.

"No one's recognised me yet, then." Quillon whispered to her, getting unnecessarily close to Rhapsody. She didn't mind and treated herself to inhaling the scent of his 19th century aftershave he was obsessed with. It was just so remarkably _Quillon_ of him. She'd told him that before, in those exact words, and the resulting silence and raucous laughter that erupted from him and the furious blush that emerged from her were enough to stick to memory. She wasn't making that mistake again.

"You know, not everyone knows who you are, Quill," she informed him and he didn't even bother to play the mock shock card. He was so absorbed in keeping his face hidden. For someone who was a bit of an egotist, he despised attention in the spotlight. It was just one of those war hero things, she reckoned. "In fact, I'd say the majority of mages who do know you don't actually love you to death."

"Ouch. Well, that stung."

"Sorry," said Rhapsody, this time meaning it, "Today was a shit one."

"You can tell me, you know," Quillon prodded softly. He was always inquisitive, but never to the point it became too irksome.

"I know I can, Quill. I just…want to get out of here first."

"Alright," nodded Quillon, watching her as they descended the stairs, "I can resist gossip for a few minutes."

They marched down the staircase in silence. It was a comfortable silence but telling. Quillon's mind was ticking away and Rhapsody couldn't read him. She might've if she put her mind to it, but he was her friend and invading her friend's thoughts was not just unethical, it was tough to do. His psychic defences were too strong. Yet another perk of battling in a centuries-old war and retaining your sanity whilst doing so. But she could read expressions and she could deduce that Quillon was insatiably curious. It was the way he clenched his jaw from side to side, nibbled his lip as though it were a tender morsel, peeked at her every time he thought she wasn't paying attention. In all fairness, it was of Quillon's endearing qualities, his penchant for perfectionism. It came in handy when applying it to solving cases, breaking down clues and hunting down leads. But at the moment, all it served was to make the awkwardness hanging in the air all the more viscous.

By the time they'd reached the bottom of the stairway, Rhapsody felt suffocated, ironically enough, by the space Quillon was affording her. He was keeping his distance, knowing she was on edge, but it was annoying. Was that selfish, that she wanted him to fuddle and dither over her state of mind and well-being? Maybe a little. At least they were on the ground floor now and a stone's throw from the exit. Rhapsody glanced around, wondering if Temerity or Diego were still there, but she did so as discreetly as possible, so as not to arouse Quillon's suspicions.

"Looking for someone?" Quillon asked. Never mind, then.

"Yeah, a couple of friends," she replied bluntly, hoping to shove the matter aside until they were far away from the place, but Quillon's impish grin told her he wasn't about to depart the subject.

"Friends, eh? Do please tell me why I'm only just hearing about these _friends_ of yours."

"What, I can't have friends that you don't know?"

"Of course, you can, but I doubt you've ever spoken about anyone here positively. Except maybe the doorman and occasionally, the caretaker."

Rhapsody frowned. "The doorman? You mean Hercule?"

"Oh, is that his name? I can never remember."

She shot him a glare as they strolled up to the receptionist's area. The receptionist, as timid and aloof as ever, nodded at Rhapsody and graced Quillon with a reproachful look that Quillon acknowledged with a casual smile. The two of them walked on before they were stopped.

"You know it's his name."

"Do I? He only says one or two words to me, so he doesn't exactly leave the best impression."

"Seriously? I mean, he's the one who lets you in here all the time. Not many others are that willing to let the friend of an employee in just because they're dressed smart and have a silver tongue."

"Don't forget the heart of gold."

Grunting, Rhapsody hoped against hope that Quillon wouldn't start anything as they approached the pair of doors marked EXIT on the scraped metal handlebar. As always, it was manned by the sorcerer named Hercule. Roughly six and a half foot tall, shaggy black hair and wild beard, he reminded Rhapsody of a dejected Viking warrior who was trapped in a suit too small and put in an environment too unfamiliar. But he was polite enough and took the time to make conversation with anyone and everyone who was passing through, provided that they, of course, wanted it. Knowing the misery-guts that colonised the Global Link, Rhapsody sincerely doubted that Hercule's efforts were rewarded often.

"Evening, you two," greeted Hercule, giving a slight bow which earned an eye roll from Quillon, "Everything all good?"

"Fine, thanks," Quillon answered, cutting into Rhapsody's much less taciturn reply, "Just heading out."

"Oh, anywhere special?" Hercule asked and Rhapsody winced at Quillon's stare. Not good.

"Not that it's any of your business, mind, but yes. We are. We're out to change the world, my good fellow. To seek out new oddities and extremities. To find out what makes our universe tick. We'll bring you a thesis of our findings, is that acceptable? Although it does depend on if you can read, of course."

"That's enough, Quill," spat Rhapsody, uncertainty splashing with cold anger. She didn't know why he was so callous to sorcerers sometimes. He'd been alive nearly two centuries more than her and yet she found out more and more secrets and truths nearly every day. One mystery she had yet to crack was why he poured disdain down upon Hercule of all people. True, Rhapsody didn't know him the doorman a whole lot, but he was nice enough and didn't look at her with veiled contempt or worse, barely concealed lust.

"Didn't mean to pry, Mr. Snitch," Hercule said apologetically, "Hope you enjoy your night out, then. Oh, Miss Gossip, sorcerers Candour and Yellowbelly left about five minutes ago but expressed their best wishes to you on your encounter with Senior Overseer Twain."

"Thanks, Hercule," Rhapsody said, aware that Quillon was already darting through the exit, "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"You won't," said Hercule with a tight smile, seemingly oblivious to both Quillon's rudeness and his wordless departure, eyes firmly fixed on Rhapsody, "I'll be visiting my mother. Won't be dooring again until Friday, I'm afraid."

"Oh, how is she doing?" asked Rhapsody, ignoring Quillon's beckoning just outside. Last she'd spoken with him, Hercule had told her his mother was suffering from some bizarre magical disease. Liquid-factor something or other. She couldn't rightly remember as he'd been understandably reserved at the time.

"Worse," replied Hercule grimly, "According to our local Vitakinetic, she's entering Stage Three of the rot. Unless we cobble together enough serum, the Vita said she'll wither away like a wilting flower within two months."

Rhapsody sighed, partly in sympathy, partly in annoyance as Quillon was waving madly for her to accompany him, blissfully snubbing the odd looks he was getting from passers-by. But she had enough decorum to keep up her talk with poor Hercule. Even if she was running late with this evening's Anodyne errand and her patience was waning. As her mind skimmed over the ways she could cut short the conversation without offending the man, something clicked. She might regret in the future, but not in any way that stood out.

"You know, Hercule," said Rhapsody at last, licking her lips, "I'm friends with Professor Gizzard. Maybe he can help fix you up with something to help your mum."

Hercule didn't look relieved at the option of help or flushed with emotion at the kindness of Rhapsody's offer. He just looked strangely impressed, thick bushy eyebrows arched. "You know Professor Gizzard?"

"Erm…yeah."

"Excellent," Hercule muttered, seemingly still in awe, but he snapped out of whatever haze he was caught up in and regarded her again, "That's very generous of you, Miss Gossip. I'll have to speak to you on Friday about seeing him and getting some treatment."

Despite herself, Rhapsody frowned. "Friday?"

"That is when I'll be back at work, remember."

"Not now?"

Hercule chuckled gently. "Not now. Mr. Snitch seems to be very…insistent that you go with him. I don't want to keep either of you waiting."

She blinked, nodded and went on autopilot, weaving a path round Hercule's huge form. She hadn't even noticed how close he'd been standing to her. The image of his small smile stuck in her mind. She didn't know why it was, or why an unwelcome chill danced down her spine at the thought of it. She did know it clashed with the warm buzz in her belly and she forced her attention back to the outside world. As Rhapsody passed through the doorway into fresh, cool air, Quillon unfolded his arms in waiting for the second time that day and led her away. Rhapsody decided straightaway that once they were securely inside Quillon's car, the two of them were going to have a little talk.

_Author's Notes: Apologies for the slightly later uploading time. Also, I've been unable to put as much as time as I'd like because of an upcoming Drama performance exam for sixth form (college) and shit's got real pretty quick. This'll mean that I won't be posting anything more on this story until after the 28th of March (the exam day) but I'll keep writing and be back with a bang come April hopefully. Thanks to you all for reading so far. I know it doesn't seem promising if I've bailed after only three chapters of a mega-story but life can invade our hobbies in the most unexpected forms. Next time: We meet more of the undesirables plaguing England's magical community and get to see some of our protagonists in action along the way..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

"Well, what was that all about?" Rhapsody demanded under her breath as Quillon unlocked the car. His vehicle, and adored prized possession, was a gleaming midnight blue Dodge Charger which seemed to feed off the sunlight and shone brighter than all the other cars in the parking space outside the Global Link Headquarters. Whether that was due to Quillon's meticulous fawning he awarded to the car or some kind of strange enchantment that ensured it never gathered dust or dirt, Rhapsody didn't know and as Quillon pointedly ignored her question and gestured for her to get inside the front passenger's seat, found she didn't much care.

"I'll tell you inside," assured Quillon but when he saw Rhapsody standing there, stone still, he softened a little, "I promise." He slid into the driver's seat and realising it'd be idiotic and pointless to just wallow in the same spot for hours on end, Rhapsody joined him. She opened the near door and beheld the car interior in the state is always was. Impeccable clean seating. Unblemished with crumbs or crinkled receipts. Nothing at all like Rhapsody's own decrepit Volkswagen back home. That Quillon's ride was far more pleasant and cleansed and less likely to make Rhapsody's nose wrinkle in disgust was just one of the reasons he did daily drop-offs and pick-ups. Especially considering what happened four months ago. Rhapsody shook her head, shunting the memory away, and got inside, planting herself down in the lovely leather seat, hand instinctively grappling for the seatbelt.

"Go on then," she urged as the seatbelt clicked into place He nodded, checking she was in properly as was the tradition, and twisted the key, the engine revving with a purr. Acting on autopilot, he flicked the switch that opened windows on both sides and despite Rhapsody's ebbing frustration, the rush of cool air was welcome.

"I don't trust him, Rhapsody," Quillon said as he stomped his foot down, rather more aggressively than usual, nearly causing Rhapsody to lurch back. Upon realising this, he seemed to mellow. "I've known Hercule a lot longer than you have."

"What? Is that it? I know him too, you know."

"Do you now?"

Rhapsody shrugged. "'Course I do."

"Pray tell then, what is it about Hercule that gets you up in the morning?"

"Wait, what?" she blanched, "Why do you have to say it like that?"

Quillon's hands expertly wielded the wheel, driving out of the car park with precision unbecoming of someone with such a childish smirk on their face. "I thought you might be…_interested_ in him."

"No," said Rhapsody bluntly, "I've never been interested in anyone at that place, let alone him."

"Oh? Why, is he even more dishearteningly moronic than the rest of them? You seemed to get on very well just then."

"No!" she said, biting back the stutter, "No, I didn't mean it like that. It's just that well…with so few friends there, surely, it'd be best not to try and pursue the ones I do have, y'know in-in that way. Otherwise, it might be a bit, er-" She suddenly noticed how pleading she sounded and how much Quillon's face was dying to grin and cut off the rest of her speech.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"What do you mean, what?" she said, and he shrugged, navigating the car's exit through the premises' gateway, which opened automatically.

"Carry on," he encouraged but she shook her head sharply.

"I'd rather not."

"Aw," he pouted mournfully, and she glared, "but I was enjoying that."

"I don't get you at all," Rhapsody mused, "You're trying to deter me from someone, never mind a potential friend, and then you don't like it when I try and explain why and oh, I don't know!" she threw her arms out in confusion and veiled anger, any fires of rage dampened as she watched the Headquarters fade out of view in the wing mirror. It was good to be out for another day. Well, very nearly night now.

"I'm just looking out for you, Rhapsody," said Quillon, but bit his bottom lip as if he wasn't too convinced that he was doing a good job, "It's just a bit annoying that you're in there on your own for what, seven to six, half six now? I'm not just sure if those hours are good for you."

"You've changed your tune," muttered Rhapsody but sighed after a moment's silence. It wasn't wise to shun one of the few people who was actually concerned about her well-being. "How else am I going to get the chance to do two people's total work for this bloody Evaluation Day? If I don't put in the time, my stories will be chicken shit."

"I'm just worried about you, that's all. _Especially_ because of the bloody Evaluation Day."

Scoffing, Rhapsody scraped a laugh out of her throat. "Don't ask me why it was made up. Suppose employees just need a bit of a scare every few months. Make sure they're not resting on their laurels."

"Indeed," Quillon agreed wisely, "Although it strikes me as a classic bureaucratic process. Unneeded, unnecessary and unwanted."

"Yep."

"But I am kind of relieved," he said as he drove and turned out into a busy road and the traffic lights were as merciless as ever. Rhapsody's frown returned as she peered up at the endless beams of desisting red.

"Relieved?"

"Uh-huh."

"At the bureaucratic process you just slammed going ahead on the coming Monday?"

"What? No, no! Not that! God, heaven forbid!" Quillon objected dramatically, manoeuvring through an empty lane in a way that violated no laws and yet still came off as a little roguish. "I meant what you said earlier. About new friends. Friends that hopefully aren't Hercule."

"Stop it," she said, slapping him on the shoulder but playfully, "Yeah, I met them just before I went into Twain's office. Their names are-"

"Temerity Candour?"

Rhapsody stared. "And Diego Yellowbelly. How'd you-"

"Hercule did mention their surnames as we were leaving."

"If you weren't a Recaller, I swear your power was enhanced hearing."

"I'm just observant," said Quillon humbly, "And smart. And cunning. And not deaf. I was right there, Rhapsody, of course I heard the names."

"But only the last names. Do you know them?"

"Barely," he answered, eyes glazing as he appeared to recall some distant memory, "I know Temerity Candour from during the last stages of the War. Mostly by repute. She'd been enrolled into the Sanctuary as a raw recruit and was assigned as part of a retrieval party to go out and gather some information. Nothing dangerous, just charting territory."

"She's in Retrieval department ironically enough," Rhapsody butted in but let Quillon get on with the tale.

"Well, let's just say the mission got very dangerous very fast. An ambush, most sorcerers were inexperienced in combat and were unprepared anyway. The security contingent was useless and were swept away. Only Candour and a couple others put up a fight and survived. We never crossed paths more than once or twice, but I saw her name pop up on reports every few weeks. She did only a few assignments in the War, given her young age, but was invaluable at beating back the last few waves of Disciples before the Truce was formed."

Rhapsody absorbed it all and stored the memory away. It was a routine she'd learned well. "And what about Diego?"

"Ah," Quillon teased, "On a first-name basis, already, I see."

"Shut up."

"Sorry," he grinned, "Diego Yellowbelly. To tell you the truth, I don't know him that well. Or at all. Yeah, that'd be more accurate."

"What, the great Quillon Snitch doesn't know something?" Rhapsody said, enjoying the wounded look he responded with.

"No one can know everything, Rhapsody," he said, slightly more solemnly than Rhapsody expected and she frowned.

"Sure."

Quillon shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. More traffic lights. Traffic was a bitch today. "All I know about Diego is that he's not to be underestimated. I've only encountered him a couple of times both in and out of the War, but I'm just thankful he was on my side." As if the topic was draining him, Quillon breathed out did the weird thing with his tongue. Indicating he wanted to shift the conversation according to his terms. "Anyway, how'd the meeting go?"

"You don't want to know, Quill," mumbled Rhapsody, grinding her teeth, admittedly more for show than anything else.

"That's wrong for starters," Quillon laughed in that choppy, gnarled laugh of his. It was weird, how his laughs varied depending on what he was amused at. "Hence the query, Rhapsody. You've been bad-mouthing Twain for years. I've grown accustomed to it enough so that I can handle a few more bits of vitriol in her name. So, go on. Spill it."

Rhapsody hesitated. But it was the calm before the storm. She opened her mouth and like a crazed mob of murderous witch hunters, her words tumbled and tossed over each other in a mad frenzy. "Well, she called me in, and then she read it through, and I sat over in the chair and had some kind of vision shit over one of her creepy-ass books, then she basically chewed me out for not having enough info about the fucking Remnants. _Remnants_, Quillon! Like, you know…" She gestured wildly as if this would accurately convey what happened. It didn't, judging from Quillon's gleam in his eye.

"How do you even do that?" she rambled, discovering the words, "Let yourself get possessed? Yeah, great idea there, Verity. Brilliant. I'll just pop by Ireland to check out the Receptacle, never mind that I have jack shit in terms of money for a flight or even a bloody ferry; the Sanctuary's probably relocated where the Remnants are housed now and oh yeah, the most important part. It's a Remnant. Why in hell would I want that black monster thingy in my mouth, or y'know…Any part of me, for that matter? Why? Why, Verity? She probably wants to get possessed, Quill. Not surprised. She's a bitch like that, anyway.

"Last but not least, she tries to fob off another partner on me. As if the one before wasn't painful enough. It's the fact she tries to do it, knowing I don't like people. People at work. They're just-God…" Rhapsody breathed. Quillon nodded sagely, as he did, and clenched his jaw.

"Anything else?" he probed, "You didn't run into Flash, did you?"

"No, surprisingly. I was Flash-free, today!" she answered with mock enthusiasm.

"What about Jagged?"

"None of her, either. Not hard to miss her, you know. She's a big girl."

"She is, indeed. Hate to pry, but, this book vision thing…"

Rhapsody tensed. _That_ was what he was broaching? "It was just a lapse. It won't happen again."

"What was the book about? Yeah, the Monster Hunting guides aren't a hundred percent accurate, but they're not that-"

"It wasn't them."

"Oh. Well then, what-"

"Can we talk about it later?" requested Rhapsody, although it was no request, "I'll be all yours to talk about work and shit later but for now, forget it. I just want to relax and hit some people."

She didn't need her Sensitive powers to sense Quillon's desire to press her, to push the subject more and learn about the book, prickled. It was written in his face. The face was the key to one's emotions, next to the mind. It was the eyes that told her. But he blinked and the desire faded away and he seemed to accept her reticence. "Very well," he said quietly, already scheming when and where and how to bring it up again tomorrow or perhaps later than that, "I'll respect your…anyway…" Quillon rallied himself. "I know you said you weren't in the mood, but this Remnant dilemma…"

"Yeah?" said Rhapsody, uncertainty evident in her voice, "It's a real pile of shite, huh?"

"I might be able to help."

This time, she didn't bother keeping the uncertainty away. "You can?"

"Yes."

"No offence, but are you taking the piss? I know you've seen all kinds of horrors and terrors and all stuff like that, in fact, you never shut up about it, but you've never been possessed by a Remnant, Quill. You told me that ages ago. And you might be an expert on history and magic, but nothing like that. Not as in-depth as this. That stuff's for nutters and scholars."

"Or scholarly nutters," Quillon mused, "The point is, I know someone. He might be able to help you with some of the info. Enough to show you've done research."

"Enough to impress Twain?"

"Most likely."

"Huh," Rhapsody steepled her fingers, before realising it made her look like an old widow or indeed, a scholarly nutter and just tapped her knees, "How soon can we get a hold of him?"

"Not right now."

"Of course, I meant-"

"I know. He's very, uh…antisocial. For good reason. But I'm sure I can persuade him to see us. Tomorrow, perhaps, but don't expect anything."

"It can't be at night," Rhapsody said as a memory flared, "I'm going out to the Wyrmling's Nest with Diego and Temerity."

"I see," Quillon said with a ghost of a smirk, "Rubbing it in, eh?"

"No!" she snapped, despite knowing she'd fallen into another of his traps.

"Jesting, Rhapsody, jesting," he assured.

"Yeah, I know, Quill."

"But that's great. Hope you have a good time. As soon as this business tonight's over with, however, I'll get right on that lead. We'll show those fuckers in the upper echelons on Evaluation Day, yeah?"

"I guess so," smiled Rhapsody. She relished the genuine feel of the smile. It was nearly overtaken by Quillon's beam in response to it. There. That was the good feeling she knew he'd bring her after a day of hell.

"So, what's the agenda for tonight?" she said after a silence that was by no means uncomfortable.

"I've been in contact with another old friend who lives around here. One who's a bit more talkative and mobile. He promised to let me know about anything strange or suspicious in the area and he called me this morning. Apparently, four people were carrying several heavy packages into one of the houses on a 'Hurndall Street'. One of them matched Nikt's description. And his pet. And the woman. And the big guy."

"All of them, then." Rhapsody sighed.

"Yes, madame."

"We're heading there now?"

"Yep."

Silence, as the car engine droned on.

"What are their disciplines?" asked Rhapsody, but Quillon picked up on the forced casualness she'd injected in the question.

"You know them."

"I meant Temerity and Diego."

"Does it matter?" he answered, "If all goes well, you won't need to fight alongside them at all. You work with them, Rhapsody. At a journalist news centre. You're not soldiers."

"I know, but-"

"What is important is that we're possibly about to enter an entirely different fight all on our own." Quillon bit his lip as he steered the Charger into a new road, one that was lined with run-down houses and abodes that blocked out the setting sun, casting a thick shadow over the street. The car slowed. It trundled along slowly, the only moving thing in sight. No flocks of birds, no passers-by, no wandering stray cats. Even the clouds seemed to freeze.

"We're here already?" said Rhapsody, aware her voice had gone quieter. Quillon nodded and didn't look at her.

"Yep. This is it, Hurndall Street. We're on the watch for Number 47-"

"There!" Rhapsody nodded to her left, refusing to point. Pointing felt like it made her more visible somehow. Carefully, she opened up the compartment to the left of the audio screen and inside, next to all the piles of CDs and rock 'n roll albums, was her gun. She snatched it up and tucked it inside her coat pocket. Snapping his head in her direction, Quillon braked and the Charger hovered in the middle of the road. No other cars were approaching either way. It was deserted. Empty. The perfect environment for drug dealers.

Number 47 was in view. It seemed like just another house, but neither Quillon nor Rhapsody were fooled. Behind that scratched, beaten door and tinted windowpanes were criminals. Mages. Dangerous ones. Ones that they'd need to fight if they wanted to apprehend. And they wanted to. Very much so. Rhapsody and Quillon had been after them for months, though it seemed like years. Countless raids and countless battles and countless times they'd slipped away like rats. As for what they'd committed that warranted such determination, well…

"Smell it?" Quillon asked, twisting the key and shutting down the car. The windows were still open. Rhapsody picked up the familiar scent of putrid ozone and strong pine clashed into one. It was all too familiar.

"That's Molten Drip, alright," muttered Rhapsody, waiting for Quillon's signal to act. He gave it. They exited the Charger fast and with purpose, each action sharp and succinct. They closed the Charger's doors as they usually would. The neighbourhood was decrepit but it wasn't abandoned. Mortals lived here, even if their choice in housing was poor. Slamming a car door wasn't a suspicious sound. A door being shut as if it was trying to be done quietly would. It was complicated, but Rhapsody had suffered the steps of sneaking up on a quarry enough times so that she'd near mastered it by now. Not that it meant their targets were any nearer to being caught, unfortunately.

They walked to the house's front door, grass patches on either side of the cobbled path. The grass wasn't freshly cut but it wasn't bundled in thick untidy piles either. This time, the Pistols were really putting effort into keeping inconspicuous. It was paying off. There weren't even any tell-tale signs of inhabitance or drug use, apart from the scent of Drip which was growing stronger as the two approached the door. It was sickening. Rhapsody fought the urge to retch. It wasn't natural. She didn't understand how any sane mage could be willing to imbue it. Drinking, injecting or snorting it, the methods varied but it was all the same. The result was a boost in a sorcerer's magic for a brief period, tests suggesting a likely peak in magical effectiveness and power for three or four hours. Perhaps the worst part of encountering the Pistols, for that was what they named themselves, the Magma Pistols, was that Rhapsody never had any idea whether they'd decided to ingest any of their deadly parcels or kept their beaks out of it for their employer's sake. Ultimately, they were just couriers but occasionally, decided to slyly sneak a bit of Drip out of the box and partake in it. It seemed there was no honour amongst thieves or druggies. But although that made them unreliable to their employers, it made them equally as unpredictable in combat. Which brought no end of dangerous possibilities for her and Quillon.

There was a face at the window. Quillon spotted it, too. They locked eyes with the face, and it vanished as suddenly as it appeared. Like smoke, or a blurring bullet, or an opportunity. Not good. "Quick, get to the door!" ordered Quillon, hand searching inside his jacket for his lockpicking tools. Obeying, Rhapsody did so and pressed against the door, drawing her gun. She cursed when she remembered she hadn't checked the bullets. She did so as fast as possible and breathed out when six bullets filled the chamber. Quillon must've reloaded it for her. As for Quillon, his tools were out and he was picking at the door, murmuring under his breath. Whilst he cracked the invisible code, Rhapsody glanced around. If anything, the lack of encroaching attackers or gunshots whizzing past made her even more nervous. All the action was going to be inside, where space was limited and so was the chance to properly capture the Pistols. It was two against four and this was the gang's territory. It wasn't exactly a good deal.

"Got it!" grimaced Quillon as with a final twist, the lock clicked and he pocketed his tools, flashed out his own firearm and shoved the door open in one fluid motion. Often, in times like this, Rhapsody just let him take the reins. They entered, guns out and safety off. No one in sight. The living room was just on the left and the kitchen on the right. Quillon tilted his head and made for the kitchen, whilst Rhapsody headed the opposite way, stealing a glimpse of the stairway to the second floor. Everything seemed normal, if a little dilapidated. Just like the street the house was on. It was a good disguise but hiding in plain sight was a veil Rhapsody's eyes had become accumulated to tearing apart when it came to these criminals. They tried too hard to blend in. She could taste it, even. Or was that the air? It was, and she winced as she scoured the living room, empty and messy as one expected. A rickety armchair and a torn sofa caught her attention. The sofa was ripped apart, bits of fluff strewn every which way, something resembling claw marks scratched into the surface. That wasn't good. Not good at all. It was evidence that the Pistols were here, but it meant that their greatest weapon was also hanging around. Rhapsody peered down to get a better look at the table and saw a couple piles of crushed powder, the colour of dried blood. Molten Drip. Unmistakable in both colour and stench.

Against her better judgement, Rhapsody edged in closer, her malachite eyes devouring the room around her. No dancing shadows. No sudden clomping footsteps. Not a vicious snarl within earshot. She sensed Quillon leave the kitchen and approach her from behind and sure enough, his steps began to reach her ears. Confident he was on vigilance, she crouched slightly and observed the scene left behind by the Pistols. They were getting less messy. That was one thing that she noticed. There were three piles of Drip powder laid out, one less thick than the others. Cautiously, Rhapsody dimmed her vision and let the strong memories that tugged at her skull enter. Recollections of anticipation, relief, ecstasy and sudden panic called out to her, begging for sanctuary. She refused them harshly, slamming a mental door n their non-existent faces and sharpened her vision again. Faint traces, but recent. The Pistols were here. They were still here.

"What is it?" Quillon asked. He was close to her and she didn't turn. She kept on watching straight ahead. She felt his presence, keen and eager.

"Traces," Rhapsody replied quietly, "They were right here. Less than five minutes ago. They were about to snort a pile each. Doing dares. Snort it in one go. One of them, Nikt I think, started but another saw us and raised the alarm. He forced himself to stop and they scattered. They've gone now."

"Evidently," said Quillon drily, "They can't have got far, though. We'll have to check upstairs, just to make sure."

"Did you text Buzzard? He and Ruth might be able to-"

"I did, indeed. Just then. In the kitchen. Reinforcements should arrive at any minute."

Rhapsody nodded. "You realise it would've been better to do that before we came in here?"

Quillon returned the nod. "Yep."

"Excellent," she sighed, "Well, now what?"

"I just said. Upstairs we go."

She blinked. "That never ends well."

"What does?"

"Going upstairs!" she spat, taking the biggest care not to let her voice travel more than an inch as Quillon began to move off and walk to the stairway.

"Hey," Quillon shrugged, not looking back, "We've done it before, and we're alive, aren't we?"

Despite the peril pressing in on them, Rhapsody scoffed. "Sometimes I just don't know anymore." Nevertheless, like a dutiful hound, she followed Quillon, eyes lingering on the devastation of the sofa as she departed. She had a feeling she'd be facing death pretty soon, judging from that. They found the staircase, and side by side, they trudged up, keeping their steps light and elusive, and hands firmly clamped around their weapons. Once again, the key was to try and remain silent whilst not tiptoeing. It was an agonising routine and bloody hell…How many steps were there? As they neared the top of the stairs, Rhapsody's legs were already aching a little and she tried to spot activity through the banister rails, but there was nothing. A creak. Not on the stairway. She looked at Quillon. Quillon was looking at her. No. No, he wasn't. He was staring beyond her, over her shoulder. She didn't even frown. She didn't turn her head. She just ducked.

Quillon did the same and the silence was shattered into a million splinters of noise as a throbbing ball of crackling red energy, roughly the size of a football, whizzed past where Rhapsody's head had been and smacked into the wall, burrowing through it, and spitting out a hundred chips of broken plastic as it devoured all obstacles in its ravaging path. Quillon muttered a curse and kept low, darting from spot to spot, zeroing in on the attacker. Risking it, Rhapsody followed suit, although she kept her own journey distant and unpredictable. There was a door on the immediate right. Shut. As she opened it, she glanced left and saw Quillon squashed up against another door, sucking in his gut as he kept his cover. At the other end of the corridor, Rhapsody saw the Energy-Thrower who was bombarding them, as he readied another death sphere.

It was Devilry. Of course, it was Devilry. He hadn't changed in the month or so they'd last fought. His stocky figure nearing seven feet tall still towered above her, hair black as tar falling in tangled cascades was no less greasy than she recalled and his thick muscles that pulsed with every movement were, if anything, even thicker and bulky with the promise of destruction. He was a sight to behold. He was also ugly as sin, a face that made Rhapsody think someone had stepped on it. A crooked conk, dull eyes scrunched together, and yellowed teeth reminded her of a Troll, although she'd met Trolls better looking than this druggie. Although none were more murderous. Oh, Devilry was murderous. Excessively so. But, luckily for her, she knew the angles and methods of how he committed that murder.

She'd encountered his energy attacks enough times by now to know he needed time, patience and concentration to muster enough power to deliver an attack of that level and from the way Quillon rolled out of his hiding place and leapt into Devilry with a grunt, Rhapsody guessed that her friend wasn't allowing a second's chance for the giant ruffian to gather his wits. The precious little he possessed, anyway. Devilry toppled and thrashed around, Quillon on top and the two traded grunts, elbows and fists. They rolled and Rhapsody wanted to throw herself into the fray, but knew she'd get in the way of Quillon's flurry of techniques. He was like a hurricane of violence, each punch and jab hitting its mark, cutting through Devilry's unrefined defence and lack of technique smoothly. Soon enough, Devilry left an opening wide enough for Quillon to sneak in and shoot a kick into the big guy's knee. It buckled.

Grunting, Devilry fell and clutched at his broken limb, allowing Quillon a clear opportunity to knock him out. But Quillon seemed to have a different idea. He drew his gun and aimed it at Devilry's humongous head. Rhapsody counted the blinks in her head. What was he doing? She was about to call out, but she noticed Devilry leaning on his arm, one hand obscured from view. When it became visible again, it was glowing red. Quillon only realised when the hand was splayed and a beam pierced the air, shooting into his shoulder and bounced off into the wall. Like an astray bullet, it danced and darted around. Rhapsody managed to escape the ricochet, but the impact had shoved Quillon into the nearest door. Thankfully, the energy hadn't been strong enough to cause any damage to the skin or even the clothes. But it'd still bruise, Rhapsody knew. She gazed at Devilry locking his knee back into position with a mewl of suppressed agony and glanced down. Rhapsody did the same. Quillon's gun was up for grabs. Devilry went for it.

His hands encircled the chamber and fiddled with it for a split second before Quillon stomped on it. A yelp of pain and Devilry shoved his elbow out into Quillon's chest, shoving him back slightly. Unperturbed, Quillon watched Devilry fumble for the trigger and as soon as he found it, Quillon lunged and grasped the giant's hand just as the shot rang out. Rhapsody clamped her eyes shut. It was loud. When she opened them, Devilry was pushed up against the banister, Quillon pressing in on him, duelling grips over the gun. They both headbutted as they vied for the weapon, Quillon's teeth bared and Devilry's lips pursed in exertion. There was a creak and the banister shattered, both men going overboard. Rhapsody swore she heard Devilry squeal as they plummeted and as they vanished from sight, Devilry screamed out.

"Nikt! They're here!" There was a thud as the bodies hit the floor below, which made Rhapsody wince.

"Typical men," chuckled a voice behind her, "Can never keep their feet on the ground, can they?"

Rhapsody turned and tried to avoid the fist that came her way, but it smacked against her cheek and rocked her head back. She raised her hands in blind defence but someone batted them away flawlessly and just as the silvery lights cleared, another fist crunched into her nose. Hot, throbbing pain flushed through her face and she fell back, one foot losing ground. Then the other. Impact on her back and she was lying there on the floor. Vulnerable. Her eyesight swam but she kept it dim. Vibrations in her surroundings told her that two people were walking around her. One's breathing neared. They must've been crouching right over her body.

"Huh. Didn't expect her to go out so easily," the woman said. It was met with a scoff of scorn from a deeper, more severe voice. Male.

"Seriously? All it takes is a good punch, Hazel. Just because she's some fancy Sensitive doesn't mean she's omnipotent."

"Yeah, yeah, spare me!" snapped Hazel.

"Where's Devilry?" the man asked. Rhapsody recognised the voices now and mentally, matched them to names and faces.

"Gone overboard," Hazel quipped with a chuckle, "With Snitch. They're probably fighting each other to a standstill."

"With us on the losing side," the man muttered, "Well, I suppose I'd better aid him, then. Make sure he doesn't obliterate himself. Again, eh?"

Hazel chuckled prettily, a stark contrast to the ugly killer Rhapsody knew was within. "I think you'd better."

"What about Caesar? Where's my pet got to?"

"Don't let him hear you call him that, he'll go ballistic."

"Ballistic? Him? Never. Now answer the question, for God' sake! Devilry's probably getting smashed to an ugly pulp down there. Well…uglier."

"God knows. Last I saw, he was getting all the Drip and supplies packed. Always on the move, right?"

"I swear if he wasn't dead, he's the biggest hypochondriac ever bloody conjured."

Another pretty, lilting chuckle. "Oh, he had a message for you."

"Who?"

"Devilry."

A breathless pause. "Well? Spit it out."

"He said 'They're here'." Hazel replied with no small amount of incredulity. It was met with another pause, one that exhibited disbelief and just a slight bit of distaste.

"No. Fucking. Way." Footsteps, clumping. "I'll help out the idiot before he gets himself killed. You deal with Gossip. We can use her as a bargaining chip if all else fails."

"It usually does…" Hazel murmured. "Wait, so we can't kill her?"

Rhapsody was unnerved at the answer. "Not yet." It wasn't anything new. The threat. In fact, it was utter cliché. But the smile was so evident in the guy's voice, it shook her a little. She rallied. Steeled her nerves. She wouldn't get out of this alive if she let herself get unnerved by a petulant and domineering thug. As the stomps gradually lessened as Hazel's accomplice journeyed down the stairs, Rhapsody risked one eye opening.

The woman lurking above her was Hazel Spice. Serial Drip dealer, witty mercenary and purveyor of cruel, exotic punishments and torture devices. Thin and spindly, there was no mistaking the muscle in her arms and lower shoulders, flexing as they were as she readied a pair of shackles. Her head was shaven, her amber eyes glittering in the half-dark of the dull lighting and the setting sun outside. Those same eyes were locked onto Rhapsody's. Time froze. Rhapsody forced a rush of energy through her bones and sent her forehead slamming into Hazel's face. Time broke and everything seemed to be moving too fast to handle. The shackles cluttered to the floor as Hazel reared back, cursing.

The brief shot of agony Rhapsody felt wash over her vanished instantly as she tucked it away, the dull ache on her cheek fading too. That was one perk of being a Sensitive. You could manipulate minds and she knew none better than her own. She knew how to fool herself and her physical form into ignoring pain, concealing it away where it didn't stop her in combat. It always came back later on, but by that time, the danger had passed. It was useful, and for now, at least, it was something in her favour. Hazel, who was now rubbing her bloodied nose and scuttling into the nearby room, was no Sensitive. That much was obvious. But she was dangerous, and Rhapsody didn't let the lack of erupting agony deter her from the side of caution. Too much, that had resulted in the Pistols' elusiveness and freedom.

"So you want to party, do ya?" spat Hazel, as she wiped a trickle of blood away from her nose, which Rhapsody noted, was wrecked, "Fine then, let's- Shit!"

Rhapsody didn't allow Hazel to finish, as she pounced and invaded Hazel's space, giving no room to fight or even flail. She just infiltrated Hazel's defences, lashing a knee into her ribs and stomping on her foot. Brutal, but it got results. Quillon taught her. But Hazel was adjusting. She threw a palm that missed Rhapsody, but a stray elbow whacked her in the ear and Rhapsody's head rocked back, falling onto the double bed that was lying neatly in the corner of the room. It was comfy, but if Rhapsody didn't get up, she'd be comfortably numb for eternity. Especially with an insane madwoman leaping down on her with an outstretched elbow, resembling an insane super wrestler.

Hesitating just a bit because of the near laughable pose Hazel was attacking in, Rhapsody rolled to the left, toward the plain, spotless white pillows, as Hazel landed hard on the mattress and bounced off away from Rhapsody to the bottom of the bed, falling off and jabbing her shoulder against the dusty ottoman there. It looked and sounded painful. Rhapsody scanned around for potential weapons. There was a cup, which she grabbed and threw half-heartedly but Hazel ducked and it smashed against the wall. She didn't want to draw her gun just yet. She'd need it for Nikt's secret weapon that wasn't so secret anymore and didn't want to waste it on the slippery bitch who was regaining her footing. Hazel's eyes blazing in anger. Oh, well. Pillows it was, then. Great. Wielding it like a…pillow, she guessed? Rhapsody got on her feet on the bed and waited until Hazel was up and then sprang, putting everything she had into the thrust and the pillow hit Hazel squarely in the face, chucking her back further than Rhapsody even expected.

Crushing the urge to laugh, Rhapsody kept her guard up as Hazel stumbled back and slammed into the door, smacking her hip into the golden knob. _Ouch_. The pain was so vivid, Rhapsody was dead certain she sensed it in Hazel's mind. Or maybe that was just the woman's eyes boring into her own, resembling all the fiery cauldrons of hell. Hazel growled and leapt. Rhapsody swung the pillow again, but Hazel was fast. She swerved the deadly cushion and snatched Rhapsody's legs, taking her off her feet. The pillow escaped her grip, tumbled onto the window ledge. As Rhapsody hit the bed with her back, she whirled her limbs around in a tangle, one of them catching Hazel in the mouth as she attempted to climb onto her. It was worth it, almost, for the murmur of suppressed stunned pain, but Hazel redoubled her efforts and reached for Rhapsody's throat.

They fought. Hazel's wandering fingers found Rhapsody's neck and tried to squeeze, but put both her hands into it, leaving her face open to yet another attack. Rhapsody seized the chance, scratching at Hazel's eyes, cementing the encounter as a 'catfight'. She could almost imagine Quillon sauntering in and remarking so. Well, he wasn't here and now Rhapsody was a few seconds away from being choked into oblivion. She wondered how Quillon was contending with Devilry downstairs, and now he was likely fighting off two men. But she quelled those thoughts. She'd worry about him later, when she wasn't in mortal peril herself. It seemed Hazel was whipping her head all over the place to avoid Rhapsody's struggled but eventually, the grip lessened in its intensity and Rhapsody heaved her off, sucking in lungfuls of air. It was musty air, and just a tad drenched with the scent of Molten Drip, but at least it was feeding Rhapsody life once more.

Apparently, Hazel had decided to change tactics and stayed down near the ottoman, behind cover and cutting down on the up front and personal attack. Which meant one thing. Rhapsody needed a shield. Anything. Mind scattering, instinct took over and Rhapsody grabbed the first pillow that she could get her hands on and held it firmly against the oncoming rush of magic. Hazel's body froze and her eyes glazed. Glazed, and glowed. Soon, her pupils were gone, and it was pure white, peppered with tawny edges that mirrored her eye colour. She unleashed the energy. It came out in twin beams, piercing and deadly and Rhapsody launched the pillow, regretting not lunging for cover beforehand. The pillow exploded in a thousand strands of feather and linen and the eyebeams knocked Rhapsody off the bed. Suddenly, Hazel smirked and narrowed her eyes, causing the twin beams to elongate but thin. Which meant they were even more lethal. _Bloody excellent_.

Panting, Rhapsody crawled alongside the bed, away from the encroaching eyebeams, but what had Quillon once told her? About when one mage's senses were out of action to perform their chosen discipline, the other ones were enhanced to another level. Which, considering the inescapable fact that magic boosted a human's senses anyway, meant that now, Hazel's hearing quality was nearing superhero boundaries and whenever Rhapsody shuffled her body along the floor, the madwoman picked it up and followed the path, directing her beams dangerously close to wherever Rhapsody was. Not good. At all. Luckily for Rhapsody she had a head start. Unluckily for her, it was waning as Hazel closed in on her position. The beams seared a corner of the bed and singed linen fluttered above Rhapsody, who was veering round the ottoman. Bits of burnt duvet were trapped in her hair and just for now, on account of a homicidal drug dealer trying to end her life, she could afford not to gag and unlock the floodgates to puke town.

Symmetrical lines of broiled carpet forged a path next to her and didn't dare flinch an inch as Hazel's path carved its way beyond her. Any movement might've alerted the woman to her presence. Footsteps neared. Rhapsody tried to peek through her peripheral vision and saw Hazel walking past, eyes still shooting energy, but frowning in confusion. She'd lost track of Rhapsody. That gave Rhapsody the opportunity to end the fight there and then. Locked in place, she waited agonising seconds for Hazel to pass by. The quietness alerted Rhapsody to the sounds emanating from the ground floor, sounds of sizzling energy and fists hitting flesh. When Hazel did pass by, Rhapsody exploded into motion. Expertly and yet with not holding back on the force, Rhapsody tackled Hazel around the legs and waist, pulling her down to the floor with a thud.

Wasting no time, Rhapsody clambered onto Hazel's spine and pinned her down. Hazel's legs were rampantly whirling around but found nothing to hit. Hazel's arms were flapping around madly but found nothing to injure. Hazel's head was turning, trying to wound Rhapsody with magic, but Rhapsody allowed the ruthlessness and hardness to overrun her judgement and gripped Hazel's shaven, smooth crown, trapping her whole head and forcing her to kiss the rug. The eyebeams were still active, but they were burning into the carpet, wisps of smoke rising out. She couldn't keep up the beams forever, and when they faded, she'd be blind as a mole. Rhapsody's panting slowed, before stopping altogether. It seemed victory was Rhapsody's, as far as Hazel was concerned. There were still three other enemies in the house, but Quillon was keeping two of them occupied. Gradually, Hazel's struggles ceased as her magic spluttered out and she groaned as her eyesight was undoubtedly weakening. She'd be sightless for a good five minutes, maybe ten if she wasn't allowed to sharpen her thoughts. Victory, indeed. For once, Rhapsody had one of the Magma Pistols under wraps and it wasn't a bluff. Hazel Spice was down for the count. Then everything changed.

It was less of a realisation and more of a suspicion. One that mounted. Grew. Bloomed into pure, unbridled terror. Mental waves snaked into Rhapsody's head, thoughts of blood, death, messy slaughter and shattered bones and more blood. Puddles of it. Oceans of it. It made Mistress Dread creep into her heart and clench it with her cold fingers. Rhapsody turned and ignored Hazel's bucking and frantic attempts to escape. She ignored the noises of toil and fighting below her. She ignored the slamming of her heart against her ribcage. She just turned and beheld the man in the doorway. The man who was gazing down at her with an expression so calm, so disturbingly statuesque, for it betrayed none of the turmoil and sheer evil within. It shrouded the raging, passionate urge to destroy, to drink, to kill. Rhapsody just looked and held the gaze, not daring to blink. The face at the window. The lookout, the watcher. Watching, always watching. Nikt's pet. The vampire, Caesar.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

Those eyes, penetrating orbs of swirling grey and teal, stared into Rhapsody as if to infiltrate her soul and she did nothing at all but stare back. This was the first time she'd seen Caesar, the Pistols' leashed beast and Nikt's guard dog, fully. Usually, he was blurring too fast to register, either in escaping her and Quillon's clutches or pressing the attack to them. Now, he stood, gazing at her. He was shorter than she'd originally imagined, and slim. Not much muscle but Undead seldom needed it. Especially vampires. The supernatural infection brimming through his veins was enough to grant him enhanced strength and speed. It was the same for all vampires, and Caesar was no less menacing than the rest. He wore a crinkled shirt and a faded denim jacket, trousers stained with dried mud. Unlike the others, he clearly didn't care much for showmanship. But then, vampires cared little for anything. Caesar's face was vaguely handsome, but his tousled nest of auburn hair and untidy ten day's beard made him look distinctly less attractive, not to mention the fact he was a monster, masquerading as a man during the daylight. Daylight that was fading. A sun that Rhapsody knew was setting in the distance.

No snarls. No threats. It was just the piercing stare of the monster, Hazel's giggling as she understood why Rhapsody's scuffles had ceased and Rhapsody's own heart slamming against her chest. Then, time resumed, and everything was moving too fast to counter, to fight, to think.

It seemed that Caesar wasn't content to wait until the beast within was unbound and allowed to be unleashed. He pounced on Rhapsody as though she were an antelope, ripe for hunting, a lamb softened for the abattoir. Palms of iron and fingers of steel gripped her body and suddenly, she was thrown the length of the upper floor, the journey cut short by Rhapsody's head thudding into the door on the other end of the hallway. It hurt, but it was nothing to the burning hot pain where Caesar had grabbed her. The vampire's grasp was like wearing manacles ten times too small clamped onto her wrists. Bloody agony. She crawled for the nearest room, another bedroom, with an antique computer atop a grimy desk in the corner and a single bed beside the doorway. A window. Rhapsody got to her feet, breath clenching not just when she realised the sun was no longer in sight, but when Caesar foot cracked into her spine.

The ache was distant, however, as Caesar viciously hauled Rhapsody up to her feet and spun her like a rag doll, her shoulder hitting the computer, her ribs into the cabinet nearby and lastly, the window ledge. The window was open, and the light breeze brought no pleasant sensation as Caesar shoved Rhapsody into the ledge, her head smashing point blank into the window. It didn't even shatter, but it hurt like hell. Her back, still twinging with pain she knew was going to get only worse in the future, if she had a future, was bent almost double as the vampire was shoving her whole body into the ledge, like he was trying to force her out of the window. She'd been warned by Quillon about this. Caesar had a thing for heights. Vampires were insane a lot of the time, and for some reason, the one throttling her madly had a penchant for dropping his victims, or just about anything not bolted down, off of huge heights.

_Too much high living_, Quillon joked at the time. Fat lot of good that did anyone, Rhapsody in particular. It didn't do a whole lot against a murderous lunatic with fangs and claws and pale skin that was beginning to loosen. Rhapsody's stomach churned. Her entire body was blistering with pain, but a cold lance of horror speared through her mind as the struggles stopped. Caesar let go. His hands went to his chest. His head was down,his body jerking. Sweat began to rain down his forehead and what were visible of his forearms. _Oh no_. Rhapsody tried to raise an arm, a leg, anything to hit her attacker in his moment of weakness, but searing anguish wracked every nerve of her body and she whimpered. Pathetic. A guttural snarl from right in front of her and she swallowed. Her thoughts drowned in fear. Reason was vanquished. Feebleness flowed through her soul. And in that moment of weakness of her own, Rhapsody reached out.

_Help._

Her hands stayed anchored by her side, too dead and tired to shift an inch, but her mind reached, its fronds and tendrils snaking out, wrapping around the nearest mind they could find. Caesar's. But something happened. His mind was gone. Empty. An abandoned cathedral. A plundered temple. Hollow, and full of nothing. She tried to further it, to find the centre, but a force, a wave of sheer unbridled urges heaved, and her tendrils and fronds were cut down to size, spiralling into an abyss of blackness. Any and all vision faded, and the thoughts rebounded. There was nothing of Caesar left at all, and so the reaching homed in on the nearest vessel they could. Rhapsody.

_Help, please._

_No help. None at all. Nothing. Nothing but white. _

_White. The world was engulfed in white… It crackled and cackled. Streaks of it. Fiercely, it struck hard and fast. It filled the room, every nook and cranny until there was nothing to behold but blinding, abnormal light and nothing to hear but that crackling and cackling and the scream that would fuel her nightmares forever more._

_A void. It threatened to suck her into it. She shut her eyes, but that white had imprinted itself into her mind. It would never go away. _

_"Mary!"_

Rhapsody. She was Rhapsody. Rhapsody Gossip. Her name, the name she'd taken. It was hers. Her shield, her protection. Without it, she was vulnerable. Helpless. It strengthened her. Bound her. Made her safe. Made her forget. But now, all the memories flooded back. They felt heavy. Tasted like salt and grit. Bittersweet. Or just bitter.

_The white faded. Darkness ruled as it retreated. She watched. She listened. She obeyed. Flesh flew and, in its wake, blood. Someone shrieked. Someone else laughed. And someone, her, she realised, was frozen. Time. All gone. Erased. No white to be seen, except the limbo that ate away at her own mind._

A hammer. An anvil. Something strong, something heavy, something to break the chains that were converging, coalescing, making her cold. She needed it. She found it. An opening. A grip. She lifted it. Fuck caution. Fuck it, fuck it all. It was up high and instead of dropping it, Rhapsody brought it down with a mighty blow and everything shattered and yet became clearer than ever. A thick grey haze broke apart and darkness receded and suddenly, she was back on Number 47, Hurndall Street, the second floor up and facing off against a monster and the only measly sounds she picked up were the grunts and groans of Caesar as his inner self fought to emerge and the last harrowing echoes of Rhapsody's given name in her own head.

_Help._

No. She needed no help. And if she was going to wait for it to come for her, she'd be a vampire's evening snack. Unless she did something. Rhapsody kneed Caesar in the groin and he wheezed. Rhapsody flung the computer keyboard, unhindered by wires and plugs, into Caesar's head and as he recoiled, the computer itself soon followed. The screen hit him square in the jaw and it shattered. Both jaw and the computer. She kept on going, pummelling him, sinking her fists in his chest, lashing out kicks into his knees and shot each of her palms into his chin, rocking his head back. Maybe it was an insanely bad idea to keep on attacking a vampire, especially one that was entering the change, and knocking down all his attempts to resist the oncoming transformation, but Rhapsody was in a lot of ways, hardly sane. And this upstart caused her pain. It was time, and only right, to make him feel a bit of pain in return.

Caesar's defences waned as the lack of sunlight destroyed his semblance of reason and strategy and was likely dazed from Rhapsody's mental invasion, despite it failing, for the vampire's shifting form meant any mind to invade had been repressed into blackness and primordial impulses. Rhapsody punched Caesar and his knees gave out. She didn't know it was a trap when Caesar, eye level with her chest, sank his stony fist into her gut and smacked his head into her collarbone. She fell back and Caesar hit her a third time, on the nose and her lips were doused in wetness. Blood. Caesar's attacks stopped when he saw the blood dribbling down on her face. _Uh-oh_. He keeled over again and when he rose, fangs were sprouting from his gums, bleeding like mad and his eyes were no longer the colour of dull concrete. They were black.

So much for the last stand, Rhapsody mulled, as she backed away, hands searching for support. Now the adrenaline had dwindled, the old feelings of broken bones and bruises decorating her limbs and torso returned. One of her hands hit a stack of quaint boxes and they toppled, and she couldn't help but glance at them as they fell, but one's lid became separated from its hoard and Rhapsody beheld the contents. Syringes. Dozens of them. Each one filled with a murky, turquoise liquid. Although upon first sight, it seemed to be more of a gelatinous substance of crushed chalk. Not as chalky as what would happen if Caesar was allowed to change, Rhapsody pondered, recalling a vampire's tell-tale skin colour. Brusquely, she bent down and snatched the nearest syringe, held it securely and faced Caesar.

She rallied herself, heartbeat palpable. He, or rather it, was panting, waterfalls of sweat dripping off the forehead, hands twitching and convulsing, yearning to plunge its fangs into a succulent meal. It lunged. Rhapsody let it come. When it was close enough, she dodged the wild swipe of its sharpened fingernails and impaled the monster right in the chest with the syringe, pressing down hard and watched the liquid ooze out of it and into the vampire's contorting body. Success. She didn't even feel the _thwack_ of Caesar's flagellating hands and although it was a hit spurred on by confusion, a rapidly wilting mind being shackled and returned to existence, it hurled Rhapsody onto the bed, but it was fine. The pain passed and she bounced off the duvet, aware she'd broken the springs and got the hell out of there as the vampire was forced to become man once more.

Snarls of suffering and throaty moans of moil drifted from the bedroom as Rhapsody shut the door and locked it tight, turning to run but slamming into Devilry's tombstone of a body. She backed up and gazed into the giant's empty gaze. The gaze of a killer. A violent one. He reached for her, but a gunshot filled the house and Devilry gasped, hands going to his shoulder, beholding the first trickles of blood in the wound and cradling it as it leaked. Seizing the opening left open to her, Rhapsody plunged her elbow into Devilry's stomach and shoved past, to where Quillon was standing at the top of the stairs, eye calculatingly glaring at his target and gun outstretched. His intense stare softened when Rhapsody neared.

"Thank fuck for that!" Rhapsody spluttered, looking back to see Devilry drop but only to his knees. He was strong, and resilient and it'd take more than a bullet, no matter how accurately fired, to disable him. Or kill him.

"Are you alright?" asked Quillon, urgency biting at his words, as he scanned around for potential enemies. A bedraggled Hazel stumbled to the doorway where Rhapsody had left her and Quillon blasted her back with a kick to the ribs. Hazel reeled away.

"Peachy," replied Rhapsody, brandishing her own gun, "Time to roll out the firearms, then?"

"Yep," he muttered, quite grimly, "Where's Caesar?"

"In-" There was a beastly banging on the door to the room where the vampire was holed up. "-there."

Quillon grunted in acknowledgement.

"Where's Nikt?" she questioned, fast and firmly, heading for the banister to peer over it.

"We had a scuffle, but I think he's out for a- Rhapsody, no!" He grabbed her from behind and dragged her back. She was about to cry out in protest, when a fireball whizzed up from below and exploded against the ceiling. It dissipated after a few seconds but in those few seconds, Rhapsody squeezed her eyes shut as the collision caused a dozen fragments of striking orange and red to splinter into the air and straight into Rhapsody's mind. Even with eyes closed, she saw the flash of fire. That'd cause a headache later, she knew. That and all the mind shenanigans she'd survived, barely, with Caesar. Oh, and the physical shit she'd endured. Yeah, that'd overpower her any minute. It was taking every ounce of mental energy in shutting down the pain threatening to erupt all over her body.

"Was that Nikt?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't Spice. Or Devilry. Or-"

"Fine, I get it. It was Nikt."

"Don't worry. That was a mega fireball."

She frowned, sceptical. "Really? A mega fireball? What the hell's that?"

"It's larger than your average fireball."

"Sure."

"The point is, that took a lot of effort and magic to conjure that. He was clearly waiting for one of us to peek over. That's Nikt's style. Sneaky and slippery."

Rhapsody nodded. "So, he should be exhausted? Or drained?"

"In some sense," he confirmed, "Want to go and dish out some wrath?"

She really needed healing. But the leaves were in the car, and even then, that was not healing in the proper sense. It was a temporary boost, a prolonging of stripped back suffering. Not the kind of healing Quillon encouraged. But she was confident, very much so, that she could block out the oncoming agony. Just for an hour or so. Maybe less. She needed to do so, for fear of the Pistols getting away. But as her mind raced, her eyes remained focused on where the fireball, the _mega fireball_, had struck the ceiling and a little spurt of flame putted and rasped. Soon, it became a spark and ignited more flames, and more and then Quillon tapped her shoulder. When she didn't respond, he turned her around to face him.

"Rhapsody, I need you with me," he urged, "Otherwise, we'll lose both the Pistols and slightly more importantly, our lives. Are you with me? Rhapsody?!"

She did nothing other than nod. That was all Quillon needed. He smiled, despite the overwhelming danger and despite the murderous druggies all around and the house they were in beginning to catch fire, she smiled back.

"Get a room, you two!" sneered someone from behind. Rhapsody stiffened and scowled as she turned to face the leader of the Magma Pistols. His brow was laced with sweat and bits of his mouth and jacket were caked in blood, whether his or not, Rhapsody couldn't identify. His hair was dark blonde, bleached but faded and his fists were clenched, breathing fast and furiously despite the wicked grin he wore. As Vociph Nikt ascended the stairway, crouching a little to avoid the licking flames and dropping segments of timber and plaster from his handiwork, Rhapsody just let Quillon do the talking.

"Gladly," he answered, using Rhapsody as a cover as he adjusted his gun, "But I think we'll be departing soon. It's getting a little hot in here."

"That it is," Nikt replied playfully, "Sorry about that. I guess I got a little carried away with my fireball there, didn't I?"

"Indeed."

"It was a mega fireball," chimed in Rhapsody, "It must've hurt to do it."

"Admittedly, yes," grinned Nikt, "But it's the kind of hurt that makes you live. The kind only us mages can feel. Or masochists. I've been told I'm a bit of a masochist, you know."

"Really?" said Rhapsody doubtfully and felt Quillon's arm aiming at Nikt. Nikt remained oblivious.

"Where's my vampire, by the way?" asked Nikt, surprisingly pleasantly, like he was just asking a neighbour if they'd seen his cat.

"Just in there," Quillon said, pointing a thumb towards Caesar's temporary prison, but not stopping fiddling with his firearm. Nikt just pursed his lips and nodded.

"He sounds pretty mad. You didn't severely wound him or anything?"

"Nope," said Rhapsody, cricking her neck, "Just mauled a little."

Nikt chuckled. "It's sundown. Has he changed yet?"

"Nearly. Unfortunately, I had to give him his dose of medicine. Seems you'd neglected doing it yourself."

"Oh yeah, we were a bit busy with some Drip and Caesar insisted on taking his serum but Devilry can be very persuasive and then we just…" He shook his head at the absurdity of the memory and then sombrely smiled. "Yeah, he's going to want to kill you for that. Vampires are monsters, but they're also perfectionists. When you don't let them change when they want to, it's damn bad, but halfway through it is even worse. Even I haven't dared to do that. Or have I?"

"No one cares, Vociph," Quillon said, calmly but in a way that denoted it was merely the calm before the inevitable storm, "Soon you and your mates can rot in a few lovely cells, we'll execute the vamp and you can snort all the Drip you want. In your dreams, that is."

"Just in case, you haven't noticed, Snitch, there's four of us and only two of you. This is our territory. You shouldn't have come in here."

"Too late for that. Besides, you lot are the ones in retreat, you've been invaded and your territory is the one that's on fire. By your own hand, you idiot. Well done for that." Nikt snickered, a little madly and raised his head, not lowering his defences, but beholding the spreading flames above him seemed to sap him of his laughter.

But it didn't dampen his smile. If anything, it grew. Rhapsody followed the Pistols' gaze and realised Devilry was back up again, limping a little but his titanic muscles still in action. The giant's palms weren't conjuring any more of that red energy, but Rhapsody kept an eye on him. Unfortunately, her other eye was trained on Hazel Spice as she shuffled out of the doorway to her left. The Pistols were closing in. The vampire was still pummelling on the door and there was a vindicating smash as something shattered. Suddenly, everything was moving.

Darting her head to witness Caesar's alabaster fist emerging from the newly formed hole in the door and fumbling for the handle, Rhapsody just glimpsed Nikt lunging for her, but Quillon fired his gun. She was so close to the shot, she was convinced she'd been deafened but the echoing ring in her ears was pierced by Nikt's laugh as he held the bullet suspended in the air. He threw it aside and clicked his fingers, feeling for a spark. Quillon didn't give him a chance and slammed into him, smacking the butt of his gun into Nikt's face. A ball of energy flew and knocked both men off their feet and into the wall, causing a rushing Hazel to curse and back off as she attempted to join the fray of fists. Devilry moved forward, ignoring Rhapsody, muttering apologies and his own string of curses, as his energy seemed to envelop both Quillon and his leader and Rhapsody took the chance she'd been given.

With full force, she twisted her body and rammed her foot down onto Devilry's knee and the satisfying crack and following wail was enough to make the fog in her head lift. But not for long. Soon, the smog rolling around inside her mind thickened and it wasn't the pain she was shackling for later. It was the fire above and around her. The wisps of smoke were growing larger and darker. Not that it stopped Hazel, who had another go at Rhapsody. Rhapsody merely grabbed Hazel's arm and twisted, flipping the nutter over her hip and sending her clattering to the ground, just as Caesar successfully opened the door, free of his prison. He didn't look happy. Not happy at all. He blurred, running at her, boot crunching on Hazel's spine as he did so. He didn't care. Before he even reached her, another man took hold of Rhapsody's arm and too late, she noticed the dark hair was filled with grease and not gel. It was Devilry and he yanked both arms behind her back.

_Shit. Shitshitshit_. Struggling, Rhapsody swore and screamed wildly as her mind panicked, her body lashed out. She got a solid kick at Devilry's knee and it threatened to cave, but his other had been slotted back into place. His legs were like pillars, his hands like vices. He grumbled but didn't let go. Caesar was coming. Everything about him radiated violence. His shuddering poise, his grinding teeth, his burning eyes. Rhapsody had interrupted his transformation, dragged him from bestial freedom to cold, hard reality. Nikt was right. She'd wronged him in a way, that to him, was only forgivable with her death and judging from the force of the blow he inflicted upon her stomach, he was hell bent on seeing that death come to fruition.

She tried. Tried to block it. But the block was broken and as more and more punches, kicks, slaps and headbutts came raining down on her, the lock she had forced on her agony shattered and all the pain came exploding out, peppered every now and then by the vampire still beating her half to death. It was like she was a living, breathing geyser, sinking and inhaling lava, but she knew she wasn't going to live or breathe for much longer. Through all the rapid sensations and suffocating clouds of smoke and ache, she vaguely heard Quillon cry out her name. But it was cut off by a sound of knuckle hitting jawbone and she became consumed by despair. She was dying.

Then there was a mighty lurch, everything rumbled and creaked, and the roof of the house split, and caved in. Scorching fire met blackness as Rhapsody's world dwindled and faded to nothing but the dark.


End file.
